


Project Sailor Cub

by Weconqueratdawn



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (see a/n for more info), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Credence Barebone Learning Magic, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Feels, Happy Ending, Healing, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Not Canon Compliant - Movie 2: Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, Original Percival Graves Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Post-Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Praise Kink, Protective Original Percival Graves, Romance, Service Top Percival Graves, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-06-22 08:02:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 77,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15577419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weconqueratdawn/pseuds/Weconqueratdawn
Summary: What does Madam Picquery do when she finds herself with an untaught, powerful ex-Obscurial on her hands? Puts her restless Director of Magical Security’s medical leave to good use, of course.Graves needs the distraction while he struggles to get his life, his sanity, and his old job back. And Credence just needs somewhere to belong. So, with Graves spending all his time helping Credence learn to control his magic, will they both find more than they expected?(Canon Divergent AU where Credence was captured and brought into custody, instead of being attacked.)This is the fic I used to describe as slow-burn daddy kink romcom, lol - enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am so pleased to finally post this, so if you're here, you've already made me very happy. I hope you enjoy it! :D
> 
> It's taken me a hell of a long time to write and a lot of people have had to put up with me whining about how difficult it was/promising it would be ready soon. If you were one of them, thank you for putting up with me!
> 
> Extra-special shoutouts to theseavoices (for reading constant updates, offering advice, [allowing me to use part of her art](https://theseavoices.tumblr.com/post/160371172911/a-gift-for-weconqueratdawn-im-testing-some-new) and general cheerleading) and to my gf (for being an excellent beta and bearing the brunt of my complaints) :)
> 
>  **Some assumptions:** In writing this fic, I made some changes to the (apparent and rather confused) timeline so Grindelwald's impersonation lasted a lot longer and I assumed Credence never met the real Graves prior to meeting Grindelwald.
> 
>  **A note on Daddy kink:** Though I’ve tagged this as Daddy kink the D-word is not used once. I had a long debate with myself over whether you can have Daddy kink without anyone being called Daddy. The answer came back as yes and I thoroughly believe this fic proves it. Credence does have an alternative title for Graves - I’m not going to spoil it by telling you what it is but I can pretty much guarantee it shouldn’t squick anyone, in any way (including embarrassment).

“I want to meet him,” Graves had said, weeks ago, before he'd even managed to get out of bed unassisted. Time had both dragged and flown since then. He'd got better. Much had been lost, much gained. Life had continued stubbornly on, without requiring anyone's permission.

Seraphina had relented, as he'd known she would. Her protest had been only a token one and granting his request was the least she owed him. Credence Barebone had been asked if he cared to meet the real Percival Graves. And Credence Barebone had said yes.

So now here they both were; sitting awkwardly in a booth at a No-Maj restaurant, allegedly safe in neutral territory.

Not that Credence seemed to find much comfort in that. He sat with hunched shoulders, fingers clasped around a mug of tea which must have long grown cold. He habitually avoided Graves’ eyes, but when Graves looked away he felt himself examined by a gaze which was sharp and inquisitive. Looking for signs to explain where Grindelwald ended and Graves began, probably. Graves had learned the answer to that wasn't as obvious as he’d thought.

“Let me get you another one of those,” Graves sighed. “Or something else?”

“ _No_.” Credence's answer was instinctive, almost a flinch. He jerked his mug back into the V of his arms, as if afraid Graves would physically take it from him. “I mean- Sorry. No thank you.”

There was another long silence, during which Credence fixed his eyes to the tabletop. His posture was self-protective but in it was something tragically resigned. A casual observer would've been reminded of a sullen child, the sadness and mistrust in his face easily missed. 

He wasn't even a child, Graves reminded himself. He was twenty-one years of age. Graves passed a hand over his brow and tried not to despair. On the whole, he would have felt better if Credence had been angry; had demanded answers and explanations, even if Graves couldn't give them.

“If there's anything you want to ask me,” Graves said. “You can. Anything at all. I can't say I can tell you anything new, but-- It might help.”

Credence's eyes snapped up from under the severe line of his bangs. It changed his entire appearance. For a fleeting second, he was no longer a passive shadow. 

“I read the file,” Graves said. “The official report. But I don't know all he said to you, all he promised.”

“Which one of us would it help?” Credence said. His words were quiet and halting--he spoke like someone unused to being listened to. “You're not him. I can't ask you why-- Why he picked me. Before he knew about-- About, you know.” He curled around the mug of tea. Graves watched his knuckles turn white around it. “He must've been able to tell, so easily, how desperate I was. How weak. How I'd believe anything he told me.”

“You're not weak, Credence. I think you've proved you’re anything but.”

Credence visibly flinched. He shook his head, stricken. “That's what he said, he kept talking about my _power_ , and I don't want it, I don't want-”

“That's not what I meant, Credence.” Graves leaned across the table, placed a hand on his arm and squeezed. “That you're sitting here now is a testament to your strength. You've survived plenty already. And for that to include an Obscurus? Unheard of.”

Credence didn't pull away. “He wanted to use me all up, didn't he? He just would've kept taking.”

“A parasite,” Graves agreed. “On the whole of wizardkind. One which fed itself on hatred, lies and ignorance. On fear.”

Credence nodded, jerkily. “I understand now. He wanted a weapon. To do his work for him.”

And what a weapon he would've made, Graves thought. The oldest and most powerful Obscurial ever known. “He didn't reckon on your unwillingness to do real harm. Remember that, Credence, in the dark hours. Remember you resisted him, at the end.”

Credence looked shocked for a moment, like Graves had said something forbidden. Probably no one had spoken to him so directly; about Grindelwald, about the associated guilt and shame about being so easily used. Put like that, who else could?

“I know a thing or two about dark hours,” Graves said. He squeezed Credence’s arm again and withdrew. “How are you doing without it? You must feel different.”

Credence nodded. “It's... easier. A relief. It was like I was being swallowed, slowly. From the inside.”

Graves let out a long breath; something else to be added to the list of things he was personally responsible for.

“We shouldn't have failed you, let you go unnoticed for so long,” he said. Though the official report had steered carefully away from Credence's home life, Tina Goldstein had been more than willing to fill in the details. “It must've been very hard.”

Credence didn't answer, just dropped his eyes and let them unfocus. _Avoidance_ , thought Graves. _Maybe dissociation. Trauma._ He nearly laughed at himself, at what a pair they both made. _The New York Branch of the Gellert Grindelwald Survivors’ Group._ Both of them had been uniquely positioned to be of use to Grindelwald--a lonely lost kid and a solitary wizard conveniently situated at the heart of magical security. 

Instead of pressing Credence to talk about it, Graves did what he wished everyone else would do: he changed the subject.

They spoke a little more. Or rather Graves did and Credence listened. He talked about the latest craze for house elf jazz; about the summer after Ilvermorny which he'd spent in the south of France; about how there was a bakery just off Lafayette that Credence should visit, if he hadn't already. It was all trivial stuff but it seemed to pull Credence back into himself.

Once he'd successfully made Credence smile--just a tiny one, over the story of how Toby Jenkins had ended up with charmed freckles which wouldn't stay put--Graves felt it was time to take his leave.

He collected his cane and held out a hand to Credence. Credence stared a second, then cautiously shook it. 

“You've got the chance to have a life of your own now, Credence. Make it yours. Make it count,” Graves said, and turned and limped away.

*

Credence had watched him for a few moments, then pulled his coat tight around himself and walked home.

He almost hadn’t taken Mr Graves hand--the gesture was an unfamiliar one. Whatever people saw when they looked at him, it never seemed worth presenting with a handshake. And it wasn’t something the old Mr Graves would have done, which was both a comfort and a cause for confusion.

The cane had been, too.

Credence hadn't noticed it until Mr Graves had stood to say goodbye. Something about it was _just right_. It was slender and black with a silver top; elegant, but perfectly masculine. Exactly like something _he_ would have had. Credence had searched Mr Graves’ face, his clothing, his everything--looking for an obvious tell that this was the real Mr Graves, the one he'd never met. But he appeared exactly, frighteningly, the same as before. 

His mannerisms might have been a little different; it was hard to tell. Credence had so little to go on--they'd only met a handful of times and always hurriedly, always rushed. Mr Graves had always had somewhere else to be, apart from that first time. And what he remembered was desperately muddled--Credence had craved his attention so badly it had hurt, and then, after everything, tried and failed many times to scrub it from his mind. Mr Graves had promised him things, Credence knew, but exactly what was now unclear. He had heard in his words things like _acceptance_ and _belonging_ and _home_ , but was equally sure Mr Graves had never uttered them.

The things _this_ Mr Graves had said, though, were poles apart. Credence thought he could read a sincerity in them, which was quite lacking from the old Mr Graves. He made no promises but he spoke to Credence like an equal, like Credence might share some understanding with him. And the sound of his voice differed--there was no persuasion in it, Credence realised. Mr Graves said what he thought and let Credence decide if he agreed or not. Now he’d noticed it the difference was striking.

Listening to Mr Graves’ stories had been nice, too. It had been good to stay quiet, and let the words flow over and through him. Maybe he should have asked to hear more. Or maybe he should have thanked him? Credence flushed; he probably had seemed ungrateful. A man like Mr Graves would obviously have more important things to do than keep Credence company--he should have shown more appreciation for his time.

There was a large bunch of people streaming out of the station at City Hall; Credence crossed the road to avoid them. He’d never liked the press of crowds but it was worse now. They made him feel hot, made his skin prickle in agitation and his chest grow tight, but couldn’t say what it was about them which provoked it.

He wondered what had happened to Mr Graves to cause him to use a cane. It must be new, otherwise the old Mr Graves would have had one. Should he have asked or enquired after his health more generally? Credence knew something must have happened to Mr Graves so that his appearance, his identity, could have been taken by _him_. But he didn’t really understand how or what. He hoped it hadn’t hurt; that it hadn’t been too terrible. Though, at his heart, he knew it must’ve been.

Maybe it was for the best he hadn’t asked.

It was bewildering to know what the right thing to do was, now, without strict rules to follow. Even little things--things other people wouldn’t even think twice about--seemed to be full of difficulty. For instance, he hadn't let Mr Graves buy him lunch--it hadn't felt right to accept and Mr Graves hadn't insisted. But now he was hungry.

The street in front of him was lined with food vendors selling hot dogs, pretzels, bagels, doughnuts, ice cream; an endless stream of food and choices. He'd only had a hot dog once before, when a kind old lady bought him one, and he'd shared it with Modesty. Should he use some of his small allowance-- _per diem_ Tina had called it--at one of those hot dog stands or should he make himself something when he got home? Plain simple food like he'd been taught; food to nourish the soul but starve the sin of greed. 

If he bought something there would be a fleeting pleasure, a sick thrill of indulgence. He passed a stand piled high with soft round doughnuts doused in powdered sugar. Its patrons stood around it, sucking oozing red jelly from their fingers. He could go into any store he wanted and buy candy, a thought which had not occurred to him before. Or cookies. Cakes even; iced ones, chocolate ones. Ones overflowing with cream and berries.

There was so much choice--a whole dizzying city bursting with it.

Credence thrust both hands deeper into his pockets. He had coins loose in one of them and grasped them tightly enough that his nails dug into his palm.

 _Choices_ , thought Credence, _reflect the soul and reveal the heart_. Was it greedy and pleasure-seeking or was it humble and modest? One was good, the other bad. Credence wanted so much to be good. Especially now, after everything. After all the terrible things he’d done.

Someone passed him by, licking their lips clean of sugar, a fat squashy doughnut in their hand. Ma would have said that doughnuts were only for good children, born free of the stains of sin. 

_Ma isn't here anymore,_ he reminded himself. But then, inevitably, it was followed by another thought: _And whose fault is that?_

Credence hurried home and didn't allow himself to look in any of the shop windows. Not even when he passed a bakery, just off Lafayette, the same one mentioned by Mr Graves.

*

“Well, how was it?”

The question was blunt but genuine in its curiosity. Graves ran a hand through his hair and discovered it wasn't easy to answer.

“It was worth doing,” was the reply he finally settled on. “It was the right thing to do.”

Seraphina sat at her desk like it was a throne. She’d been the same, ever since he’d first met her. Even at school she had embodied a dignity which shouldn’t have been possible in a girl a year below him. It scared the living daylights out of the junior Aurors. And most of the Department Heads.

“And how did Mr Barebone seem to you?” 

“Like he's been screwed over by everyone he's ever come across,” Graves said. “You've met him; you've seen for yourself.”

“You know that's not what I mean,” Seraphina said. “Can we trust him? His magic is considerable, more powerful than anyone has yet been able to discover. Can he learn to control it?”

“Why wouldn't he be able to?” Graves asked. “That's why we send kids to school. Give him the proper training and I'm sure he'll be fine.”

Seraphina pursed her lips, and leaned back in her chair. “Stop being petulant,” she said. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Half your staff are asking the same questions.”

“My former staff,” Graves reminded her. 

She ignored him. “They spent the better part of two days fixing the damage he caused, then another week on high alert in case the mass obliviation didn’t hold. We think we’ve managed to suppress wider awareness but he remains an open secret within much of MACUSA. They all know he’s a serious risk.”

“A pretty little problem,” Graves said. “But surely we can arrange for a special course of study and then, once he’s got it under control, send him on his merry way?”

“There have been a few complications,” Seraphina said. “And he's not been brought up as one of us. He missed that particular window of opportunity--and, yes, I’m well aware that was an oversight on our part.” There was a short silence before she continued. “There's never been a case like it.”

“So what’s the plan?” Graves said. “What are you really asking me?”

“I’m asking for your opinion on where his loyalties lie.”

Graves drummed his fingers on the desk. He knew it annoyed her, so he did it a little louder and longer than necessary. “If you think his loyalties might lie with Grindelwald then this administration is in worse shape than I thought.” There was another pause. “Or are mine in question now, too?”

“No, of course not,” she said, a touch too sharply.

He gave a nod, and withdrew his hand from her desk. He’d had a desk, once. An office.

“But I’m no longer trusted enough to work for the Department, let alone run it.”

A look of pure exasperation passed over Seraphina’s face before she brought it under control. He’d always been able to rile her. It was something he saved for private moments between them, which made him wonder exactly how good Grindelwald’s impersonation had been.

“As I’ve said, many times before, you have not been replaced and you have not been fired,” she said. “You have, however, been placed on medical leave and there you shall remain until I am satisfied.”

Graves huffed and then realised he really did sound petulant. But, dammit, why shouldn’t he be? “How many more examinations is it going to take? I’m fine. The reports all say I’m fine. No lasting physical damage, no traces of dark magic--nothing.”

Seraphina gave him a long hard stare. “How’s the leg?”

“What does that have to do with it? So I can’t run around like a twenty-five year old anymore. So what?” He knew there was no point in arguing--he knew what she meant. And that she was right. 

“There’s the small matter of your missing memories, too,” she said. 

“Yes, and how are you coming along with that? It’s not like we both don’t know where they are, it’s just that neither of us can currently access them.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic, Percy.” Seraphina sighed. She looked tired. Everyone was tired. “My point is I can’t put you back on active duty. Left to your own devices, you’ve never known when to quit. So I am making that decision for you. And, before you say anything else, let me remind you it is _entirely_ within my remit to do that.”

Graves shut his mouth and looked away. “Yes, Madam President,” he said, under his breath.

“That’s better,” she said, with a dry smile. “Now for some good news. I might have another job for you. Something unofficial but in which I am taking a personal interest.”

Graves frowned. This was unexpected. “Am I going to like it?”

“It’s a matter of national security,” Seraphina said. “And failure is not an option.” Leaning across the desk, she slid a huge sheaf of papers towards him. “What _are_ we going to do with Credence Barebone?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for giving this fic a wonderful welcome--I’ve been working on it since last year and been kicking myself for not being able to post it earlier, so I’m really very glad there’s still an audience here for it <3

There was a clock, ticking noisily over the fireplace. Graves didn’t even look at it, just threw out his hand and the ticking stopped. He hadn’t noticed earlier, when the bustle of the city had drowned out the sound. But at this late hour it seemed to be mocking him, announcing each passing second loudly to the room. Each second of a life he might not have returned to, but one he suspected he was failing spectacularly to take advantage of.

Had there been a clock, before? One he’d heard in the darkness? When--

Never mind. The clock was barely even his, anyway. Very little in the apartment had belonged to him longer than a few weeks. It would go in the trash, first thing tomorrow.

He’d read through the bundle of papers already, soon after Seraphina had handed it over. Each was a neat typewritten report documenting observations and interviews, clipped together underneath a cover page which stated simply: _Highly Classified (Project Sailor Cub)_. Every single one of them was about Credence Barebone.

In the aftermath, secrecy had been paramount. MACUSA had scoured No-Maj memories clean and done its best to keep the Obscurial’s existence hidden from wizardkind. The name Credence Barebone was removed from low-level reports and, if the press were aware of him, they hadn’t dared to publish. A straightforward cover-up, no less, but one Graves agreed was needed. MACUSA’s reputation was rescued from further damage and no would-be Grindelwalds were alerted to the devastation an Obscurus could wreak or where they could find one. Grindelwald himself was blamed for the mysterious damage visited upon the city.

Graves had been informed of all this while still in the infirmary. There were a few details, however, which he had not been privy to before, either officially or on the grapevine. The removal of the Obscurus sounded like it had been rather hair-raising for everyone involved. Scamander had supervised, naturally, and for that Graves was glad. Apparently, his talents extended even beyond seeing what should have been obvious to everyone else, up to and including a bunch of Aurors trained in dark magic detection. He must write to him again soon and see how the book was getting along.

Grown too large on Credence’s considerable magic and unable to sustain itself, the Obscurus had not survived long after removal. Here Graves’ opinion diverged from Scamander’s report, which sounded quite regretful about its demise. Photographic evidence showed the creature fully manifested, a creeping, seething shadow which both slunk away from and tentatively reached out to those present. Graves forced himself to watch these pictures for some time--they made for uncomfortable viewing.

Credence had been mostly unscathed--‘shaken but relieved that “his darkness had been taken away”’ said the report--though weakened for some time afterwards. But after that it was clear that no one knew what to do with him. Technically, the threat had been neutralised, and yet the situation was so extraordinary, so complicated with unexpected factors, that the Department couldn’t simply let him go.

To begin with, he had nowhere _to_ go. And there had been serious debate over his culpability--included were some strenuously-worded statements from the freshly re-appointed Auror Goldstein, all in Credence’s defence--and even an inquiry into the surrounding legalities. During this time, Credence had been kept in informal custody and Goldstein seemed to have become his advocate. It was her signature on the papers which released him into something which sounded suspiciously like parole.

In the end, he was absolved from blame but worries began to surface about his potential. Paranoia was at an all-time high and fear of Grindelwald’s methods went beyond the rational. And, with Credence’s background and his accidental exclusion from magical society to take into account, no one seemed sure if he was likely to enact a terrible revenge on wizardkind or seize gratefully at his new life. The only thing certain was the extent of his magic--evidently as prodigious as his control over it was lacking.

Controlled tests were performed, with little usable information forthcoming. The stand-in wands he’d been given shrivelled to white-hot ashes when he’d tried a simple _Lumos_. ‘Burned the core right out of it,’ the report stated in a horrified voice, causing Graves to lament the lax standards the Department had fallen into and wonder who had allowed such over-emotive language to cross their desk unchecked.

Credence’s magic erupted, unpermitted, at frequent intervals. It was theorised that this was a period of temporary turbulence but so little was known about Obscurials no one could say if this was indeed a reasonable suggestion or how temporary it might be. Lights had a habit of flickering when he passed by, as if there a storm was coming. Once, he had fled from the bathroom and refused to go back in, stating that the steam had taken on the shape of his nightmares.And he would wake in the mornings to find strange, though harmless, objects had appeared overnight in his room--a thick woollen blanket, a pile of books, and once a whole roast chicken. After the last one, Credence admitted he’d been hungry but swore he had no knowledge of how he’d managed to summon it.

None of this had been evident in the young man Graves had watched cradling a cup of cold tea. He seemed about as likely to be a powerful wizard than he would be a manticore in disguise. But he'd grown skilled at hiding himself, Graves thought; hidden so deep even Credence didn't know what he was.

He collected the reports back together. Somewhere, maybe on someone else's coffee table, would be a dossier all about Graves. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was a practical one. And a sensible action--exactly what he would have ordered if someone else had been impersonated. The Department might be paranoid but it had every reason to be.

Which meant there was more to Seraphina’s job offer than appeared. Perhaps it was merely a way of keeping him occupied, a convenient distraction to prevent him taking an active interest in the Department. But the Project was a legitimate one--there was a clear need for someone to steer it on from where it currently floundered in indecision. Credence couldn’t be left unsupervised--indeed, he technically hadn’t been, considering the round-the-clock Auror surveillance of his residence. His abilities desperately needed assessment so a more permanent decision could be made. 

Obviously Graves’ acceptance--or not--would be viewed as evidence in his own case. And his performance indicative of his state of mind, if the quacks at the Department were to be believed. This was a test--for both of them. Seraphina had given him two months to get the job done and it had to be a success. 

Graves wondered then how much Credence knew of his uncertain situation. The tone of the reports made it plain it would’ve been much easier all round to hex the legalities and keep Credence in custody. There was also the matter of Graves being chosen to help him control his magic. Would he mind seeing Graves’ face again? Regularly? Even by the end of their meeting, he hadn’t quite stopped staring when he thought Graves’ attention was elsewhere.

He remembered telling him about the south of France and Toby Jenkins--now, why had he done that? Graves hadn't uttered that name for almost two decades and not spared a thought for his charmed freckles for almost as long.

What he hadn't told Credence was how they’d clustered like constellations on his pale skin, trailing after the touch of Graves’ fingers. And that even after they'd figured out how to put them back, one remained out of place, low on his stomach, and Graves had kissed it every night before they went to sleep. 

When that summer ended, Graves had started working for MACUSA and Toby had gone back to England. Had he become the good Ministry man his father wanted, married with a dimpled wife and two perfect children? Or had he run off to a remote Scottish island to write books like he’d talked endlessly about? The war had probably got in the way, though, like it had for everyone. Possibly he didn’t even come back from it.

Graves could find out. Make enquiries. Even so, he knew he wouldn’t. He never had before.

The now-silent clock said it was past two; as good a time as any to try for sleep. Graves scribbled out a note of acceptance to give to Seraphina’s eagle Chrysopteron in the morning. In the end, his decision had been an easy one--and what else did have to occupy himself with? Credence would at least derive a benefit from the involvement of someone competent. Failure was much less likely to be an option now that Graves was in charge.

As long as Credence would allow Graves the opportunity, that was.

*

Credence dressed with extra care that morning. It had been drilled into him that a plain but tidy appearance showed respect for family, society, and God. Every day they had lined up for Ma’s inspection. Presentability was key to getting the Word across, she had said. No one would listen to a bunch of ragamuffin street urchins. They must be respectable at all times or respectable people would pay them no mind.

He supposed that hadn’t changed, whatever else had. Especially now he had almost no one at all. He had to do his best; try to find a way to make a life for himself. Somehow. 

It was easier when he had instructions to follow, like today. Go here, do this, don’t think. A series of tasks, one after the other, which when completed might mean he could fall into exhausted sleep by nightfall. 

The walk was pleasant. The snow had long melted and fresh flowers were starting to appear for sale. There were soft fragrant lilacs and bright bunches of tulips. It gave Credence a fragment of hope he didn't think really belonged to him; it was just an animal instinct, like how people said they felt happy on sunny days. But it was nice all the same.

He didn’t notice the place at all, the first time. It looked like any other abandoned office building, empty and waiting for new tenants. When he tracked back along the street he saw the plaque beside the bolted glass doors, which read: _The Abditum, 7-8 Maiden Lane_. Visible through them was a lobby, its once-shining tiles covered with dust.

Credence peered rather hopelessly inside. He could knock but what would be the point if there was no one there to hear him? There wasn’t even a bell. He looked again at the note, which had arrived somewhat alarmingly by pigeon yesterday. It told him to come to this address ‘at 9am precisely, and enter’ _._

He moved away from the blank staring doors and further into the shadows by the wall. It was easier to think, there; passing eyes would slide right over him and he would go unnoticed. He tried to take deep even breaths. The note was real; it was in his hand. No one was playing a trick on him. And the magical world was different to the world he knew. It was confusing, surprising, and, more than anything, it wanted to stay... _Secret_.

The doors were very strongly secured--barred and chained with great padlocks. He went back to them, studying the rust on the chains and the dullness of the locks. They looked as if they’d never been opened since the building was locked up. 

He waited until the street was quiet and then, feeling foolish, braced his palms against the doors and pushed.

With rather too much force, it turned out. The doors didn’t budge an inch, but Credence did--plunging headfirst into the lobby as if they hadn’t been there at all. The floor was more slippery than he expected and, before he knew anything about it, he found himself sitting on the same dusty tiles he’d seen from outside. 

Across the room, a shadow moved. “Welcome, Mr Barebone,” said a familiar voice.

Credence started. He knew it couldn't be _him_ ; that he was far away, safely under magical lock and key. But the surprise of the enchanted entrance, the forlorn office building, and the absence of anyone else bypassed his rational mind completely. He froze with terror, unable to do anything but squeeze his eyes shut and pray.

There followed quick striding footsteps accompanied by the _thunk_ of a cane, and then Mr Graves was there, holding out a hand to help Credence up.

“Apologies,” he said, all traces of amusement in his voice now gone. “I shouldn't have startled you like that.”

Credence swallowed and looked at the floor while he brushed his coat down. His racing heart was slowing already.

“I'm fine,” he said. He peeked up at Mr Graves and found concern on his face. “Really I am. I just-- It was a surprise.”

Mr Graves made a disapproving sound. “Nobody told you to expect me, did they.”

Credence shook his head. “No, sir.”

“For that I am sorry, too. Idiots, of course they wouldn't think--” He waved his hand and there was a noise from the far side of the lobby. An elevator door had slid open, one which Credence was sure hadn't been there a few moments ago.

“You'd better follow me,” Mr Graves said. “We can talk more downstairs.”

*

Graves ushered Credence into the elevator. Credence was still gazing out towards the entrance as the doors closed and it jolted into action.

“How does it work?” he asked. “I mean, what if someone should lean on them, someone you don’t want inside?”

“There are spells to repel No-Majs,” Graves said. “And everyone else is by appointment only.” He caught Credence’s troubled face. “Don’t look like that--repelling doesn’t hurt them. They just remember something they’ve forgotten to do, or decide to shelter from the rain in a nice warm diner instead.”

The elevator halted and the doors creaked open. The corridor outside was dark and gloomy; Graves lit it with an abrupt gesture. Credence watched, an anxious line creasing his forehead, as a line of brilliant white globes sprang into being, close to the ceiling. 

The one above their heads flickered rapidly, then burst like a balloon. Graves frowned a little and replaced it with a wave of his hand.

“Credence, I know your first experiences of magic have been… unusual. And more than a touch frightening,” he said. “But magic is simply a part of you. It’s nothing to be afraid of.”

For a moment, Credence looked like he wanted to object but just nodded meekly. Graves held back a sigh and indicated Credence should go ahead of him down the corridor. He moved with a stiff shuffling reluctance; a strange habit for one so young. Graves studied his hunched, slender back. He’d hoped that time on his own might have helped Credence find a way out of the corner he’d been backed into--but it seemed there was still some distance to go.

“This building belongs to MACUSA,” Graves said, as they walked. “But it’s not visited often. Upstairs are meeting rooms and offices, kept for emergencies. Most only come here, to the basement, during Auror assessments.”

They went through a set of double-doors at the end of the corridor. Beyond lay one of the old practice rooms. It was about the size and shape of a large gymnasium, with a few rows of tiered seats at one end. 

“This is where we’ll be spending our time,” Graves said. “It was built for advanced duelling practice--you can raise hell in here and it won’t matter. The wards can contain just about anything.”

Credence cast him a petrified glance and stared around the room. He took a seat only after Graves did.

“Before we go any further, I need to be sure--” Graves said, and then stopped. He had to ask, had to be certain, but wasn’t looking forward to the answer. “If you’re uncomfortable with me being here with you--you have to say. I won’t mind--it would be perfectly understandable. We can find someone else to teach you magic.” He looked out, across the empty space of the hall. It was better than looking at Credence and his nervousness. “Though why anyone else hasn’t figured that out is beyond me.”

“I know you’re not him.” The words flew out of Credence in a burst. Graves waited, but no more followed.

“Even if I only remind you of him, Credence… That could hamper your progress. And a lot hinges on your progress. You’re a smart boy--you already know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Credence didn’t move or look up at him, still as a statue. But Graves knew he was thinking his words over with care.

“There will be hardly anyone else here. It will be just you and me. That’s a lot of time to be with someone who makes you uncomfortable.”

Credence sat quietly for a long while and Graves let him. Better he came to the right decision than have cause to regret it later.

“You understand,” Credence said suddenly. “I think it makes sense for you to teach me because you understand why I find it difficult. It’s not because I don’t want to learn.” 

Graves pursed his lips. “I met you for the first time last week,” he said. “What makes you think I understand better than those who’ve known you and your troubles longer?”

“No one else talked to me about him like you did,” Credence said. “I don’t think anyone else knows what he was like. Not really.”

Graves sighed. “He encouraged you, didn’t he? Persuaded you to let go after you’d held on for so long.”

Credence was tense with misery. He nodded slowly, shamefully.

“Do your magical disturbances happen often?” Graves said. “They can’t be pleasant for you.”

“Sometimes at night,” Credence said. “When I dream about… Things. Usually when I distract myself it’s okay.” He raised his eyes to Graves’. “I know I make them afraid--even without that creature inside me, making me do things I don’t want to.”

Graves sat back in his seat and considered this carefully. Eventually, he said, “Well, if you’re not afraid of me, then I’m not afraid of you. How’s that?”

A hesitant smile flickered over Credence’s face and then vanished again. “Yes, sir,” he said, more seriously.

“We’ll start small,” Graves said. “Focus on shaping your magic so it does what you want, obeys your commands. And, if your commands are harmless, so will your magic be. Like this.”

An impulse took Graves to show Credence something good, something pure and untainted. He opened his hand and within his palm wordlessly conjured a white rose, which budded and blossomed between his fingers. Then he held it out to Credence.

Credence stared at both it and Graves in turn. After a moment’s pause, he took it. “But it’s a real flower,” he said in amazement, and smiled. A real smile, straight from ear to ear. 

It was like the sun coming out. Graves was uncomfortably reminded that that sort of magic was something a young wizard might do to impress a date. But, under the circumstances, it had seemed appropriate. And there was no chance at all Credence would misread his gesture. 

“You can teach me how to do that?” Credence asked.

“I’m here so you can learn some control,” Graves said. “Once your magic has an outlet, your disturbances should stop. So I’ll teach you whatever you want, if it’ll help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the use of pigeons instead of owls is fairly widespread now (?) but I first read this in unicornmagic’s fic _[The Standard Book of Spells](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9916205/chapters/22221848)_ and I *loved it* so credit where credit’s due :)
> 
> And yes, I decided to go with JKR’s habit of naming things in a really obvious way, only in Latin, etc. I did a lot of research so I may bore you with tidbits in the notes.
> 
> _Abditum_ (where Credence will learn magic) = hidden/secret and _Chrysopteron_ (Seraphina’s eagle) = golden winged and was an epithet for Iris, messenger of the gods.


	3. Chapter 3

In the one-room apartment where Credence now lived, there were three tall windows looking out over the street below. Each was narrow, casting long strips of sunlight across the floor and over his feet. From his chair in the corner, the entire apartment was within view. It didn’t matter that none of it really belonged to him. Waking there every morning was a relief; it meant he hadn’t dreamed it all. That he was safe, and that he was alone. That, even if he still felt fear, there was nothing left to be frightened of.

Sometimes he could sit there all afternoon, not thinking about anything, simply watching the light shift slowly around the room. Touching first the counterpane and the little tufted rug by the bed, sliding warmly over the painted surface of the wardrobe, and then onto the polished kitchen table. By the time it fell upon the stove, glancing a sharp brightness off the kettle on top, it would be time for dinner. Credence would rise from the calm stillness, wash his hands, and prepare something to eat.

At other times, though, he was restless. His fingers twitched; his nerves wound taut; he wanted to curl up so tight he disappeared into nothingness. Then he would make himself work--sweep and polish and scrub until nightfall. It didn’t quite chase away the shadows but they would recede further back into the corners of his mind.

Today he felt blessedly empty. That morning’s practice had been hard. Mr Graves was kind in his tutelage but demanding with it. Credence was strangely glad--it was familiar to have standards to meet, ones which were always just out of reach. But Mr Graves had a way of letting Credence know it was okay that he couldn’t quite do what was asked of him yet; that he wasn’t a disappointment. In fact, it almost seemed that Mr Graves did not really expect him to be able to manage the tasks he set out and was only curious to find out how close Credence could get.

The progress Credence had made so far had been slight. Still, Mr Graves appeared not in the least concerned. He had given Credence books on magic to read, ones which listed spells and instructed how they should be performed, telling him not to worry about learning them. He was only to familiarise himself and to gain an understanding of the possibilities before him.

Credence had read them with mingled perplexity and wonder--the uses of some were immediately obvious, but why on earth should anyone want to make inanimate objects sprout legs and walk about the room? The domestic spells had particularly shocked him--there were spells to cook, spells to clean, spells to tidy. A broom could be enchanted to busy itself without the caster having to lift a finger. Or the dishes told to wash themselves in the sink. To think that all of his old daily chores could have been performed by magic; it seemed impossible, decadent, utterly wonderful.

Though there were hundreds of spells listed in one single schoolbook, Mr Graves was quite sure that, once Credence had shown some control over his magic, he would be able to master them all. All Credence had to do, he’d said, was welcome rather than fight it. 

It sounded simple, and Credence was trying his best. Really he was. The problem was Mr Graves’ magic was beautiful. It amazed and delighted Credence every single day. He had conjured Credence another flower--this time a carnation, which he’d placed in Credence’s buttonhole. He had made lights twinkle like fireflies, ones which danced and shimmered above Credence's head. He had effortlessly transformed the wooden bench Credence was sitting upon into a sleek leather armchair and back again. Credence couldn’t even begin to fathom how Mr Graves made these things happen--they just seemed to be an extension of his own, very accomplished, self. 

So far, all Credence had managed to do was cause loud noises and destroy things--if anything happened at all. That morning, Mr Graves had set an empty bottle in the centre of the room and asked him to levitate it. Credence had concentrated hard, using the words Mr Graves had given him-- _Wingardium Leviosa_ \--both out loud and silently in his mind. After about five minutes of nothing, it had exploded with a sharp _crack_. Credence had jumped and Mr Graves had instantly stepped in to deflect the flying debris. Then he had inspected the scattered shards--spread quite some distance from where the bottle had been, Credence noticed with a heavy heart. But Mr Graves had nodded blithely and smiled a little and said that, of course, it was very difficult to direct magic without a wand. 

Rather shamefacedly, Credence remembered the ones they’d asked him to try before, which had grown white hot and crumbled to smouldering dust in his hand. He hadn’t needed the alarmed looks from the witches and wizards present, or the frantically scribbling quills, to guess that shouldn’t have happened. Though Mr Graves must know about this, he never once mentioned it, and spoke as if it were just a matter of Credence passing a test before he could find a wand which suited him. Then, he was assured, he would find casting spells much easier.

Credence certainly hoped so. 

Though it was only five o'clock, his stomach was empty and near aching with hunger. Dinner was to be leftover soup and bread but, as it was still a little early, Credence decided to distract himself with more reading. He should study more, learn more, and then he would be quite ready for dinner. There was that book by his bed on magical history, which he found fascinating, or he might go over the Charms book again. Then, when the time came, he had a chance of being the student Mr Graves deserved.

That night, on the cusp of sleep, unfamiliar words mingled with his nightly prayers-- _Protego Duo, Cave Inimicum, Expecto Patronum._ Credence pulled the blankets tight around himself and slept, for once, soundly.

*

Now he knew how to enter the Abditum, Credence would make his way straight to the training room, finding the dark basement corridor already lit with floating brilliant white lights. Mr Graves was always there first, waiting with a china cup of steaming coffee, even though Credence was never late and usually a little early.

“Good morning, Mr Graves,” Credence said, and laid his hat and coat neatly over one of the benches.

“Morning, Credence.”

Mr Graves fell silent; he had a frown which said he was deep in thought. He patted the bench next to him so Credence sat down and kept quiet.

It wasn’t too long before he spoke again.

“I want to try something different today,” he said. “I’ve spent some time thinking about your particular circumstances and it occurred to me we’ve been approaching this all wrong.”

Mr Graves paused here, as if it was likely that Credence might have something to add. But Credence waited patiently, hands twisted together in his lap. Whatever Mr Graves had to suggest, he would try. He couldn’t perform much worse than he already had done.

“Everyone has assumed your magic is so wild because, without schooling or practice, you haven’t developed the control needed to master it.” Mr Graves set down his cup and brushed dust from his already-spotless pants. “Credence, I think you have too much control. I think it’s holding you back.”

Credence was shocked into silence. Self-control was everything he’d ever been taught; it was how he kept himself upright on even the worst of days. It had kept his dark creature at bay for years. Without it, who knew where he’d be?

“You’ve spent so long keeping your magic hidden,” Mr Graves said. “It’s become second nature. You need to just--” Mr Graves raised his arms to the ceiling in one swift motion. With it came a strong breeze which blew Credence’s hair about. “--let it out.” 

The idea was horrifying. All the terrible things which lurked inside him would all come swirling out; all the bad thoughts, all his pain and upset. The only way was to keep it locked up tight. Wasn’t it?

“But what if I do something bad?” said Credence.

“You won’t,” Mr Graves said. He sounded so certain that, for a moment, Credence almost believed him. “And anyway, there’s very little you can do that I can’t undo.”

Credence nodded. That was most likely true. “But _how_ do I do it?”

“Just to allow it happen, Credence--feel your magic unencumbered by anything else. Give it free reign.”

“I know how that feels,” Credence said, to his knees. “It brings down buildings and hurts people.”

“That wasn’t your magic,” said Mr Graves. “Its power was only fuel for the Obscurus, and that is no more.”

Credence was silent. There was still something trapped inside of him, he knew, and if he opened his mouth it might escape. He’d always thought it was that strange beast of smoke, but now he recognised it couldn’t be. It clawed and twitched at his stomach, at his lungs. At the back of his throat.

Mr Graves bent close. His hand on Credence’s shoulder was warm and heavy. It felt so good that tears pricked the corners of Credence’s eyes.

“I don’t want that for you, Credence. I want to show you the opposite.” He was so near his breath brushed Credence’s cheek. “Do you trust me?”

Credence met Mr Graves’ eyes. He probably shouldn’t trust anyone ever again. But, when Credence searched his heart, he found it was already too late to stop himself. He took some comfort from the knowledge that, though his heart might not be the best judge, it must surely be a lot better now than it had been.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Mr Graves smiled at him. “Now, I want you to think of something wonderful, something which makes you happy. And then I want you to make something, anything at all, happen right here.” Mr Graves pulled out his wand and drew a large shining circle with it. He blew gently and it slowly floated out into the middle of the room. “Make a noise, make a mess. Anything. But do it.”

The circle hovered quietly and Credence stared dumbly at it, his mind blank. He had no idea what to think of or what made him happy. The only thing present was a kind of numbness, a cushion from the world around him. 

Mr Graves was watching him, a solid presence at Credence’s elbow. His hand was still on Credence’s back, rubbing tiny encouragements with his thumb. Mr Graves probably wasn’t even aware of doing it; an instinctive response to soothe, nothing more. But Credence was suddenly certain about some of the things he wanted. He wanted to please Mr Graves, and for him to keep his hand exactly where it was. He wanted to lean into him, to turn into his warmth. It would be safe there, always, Credence thought. He didn’t know how he knew that; he just did.

Credence squeezed his eyes tightly shut and pictured the circle that Mr Graves drew.

There was a crackling, fizzing sound, and a sharp intake of breath from Mr Graves. Credence recoiled, sure he’d done something wrong.

The hand on his back moved again, this time the whole palm, pressed right between his shoulder blades.

“No, don’t stop,” Mr Graves said. “Keep it going. Good boy.”

Credence opened his eyes and saw-

_Fireworks_.

Golden ones, green ones, red ones. There were sparks showering in patterns, bursting from the centre of the circle. He looked at Mr Graves in wonderment--and no small measure of suspicion--but he just smiled and shrugged as if to say‘not guilty’. Only then did Credence notice the surge of warmth along his skin, all the way down to his fingertips. 

His breath caught in his chest: he’d done that, it was really all him. And it was _still_ all him. His pleasure bubbled--there was a buzzing sort of lightness just below his ribs--and there came a report like a cannon firing and a enormous glittering whoosh of light. It was so bright the room dimmed a little, and when all the sparks had glimmered to nothing, Credence saw the circle of light was no more.

There was a short, stunned silence. Then Mr Graves exclaimed, “ _Magnificent_ ,” clapped Credence on the back, and began to laugh.

For Credence, that was nearly as much of a surprise as the fireworks had been. He gazed with disbelief at Mr Graves, until he too was grinning harder than he could ever remember doing.

“Forget the rest of the session,” Mr Graves said, after he’d composed himself. He handed Credence his coat. “We’re going out to celebrate.”

*

“Where would you like to go?” Graves had asked, but as Credence’s only response had been to look exactly like a startled colt, Graves had taken him back to the diner where they’d first met.

It was before the lunchtime rush and the place was empty, save for a couple of young No-Maj sweethearts sharing a plate of apple pie. The waitress took one look at Graves’ cane and tried to seat them at the nearest table, which happened to be smack bang in the middle of the window. Graves shook his head and asked for a booth at the back, by the wall.

Graves was determined, this time, that Credence should go home with a full belly. Maybe even an over-full belly. He deserved it after that little display. 

The waitress tried not to hover over them but with the place so quiet that was the general effect. Credence hunched over the menu, doing a great impression of someone studying it closely. But not enough to convince Graves.

“Know what you want, Credence?”

Credence gave a hopeless shrug. “I’m not that hungry,” he said. “It’s still early.”

Graves slid the menu out from between Credence’s fingers. “Is there anything you don't like?”

Credence peeked up at him and said, like it was the admission of a great sin, “Dill pickles. And boiled cabbage.”

Graves signalled to the waitress, who bounded forward with relief. “Two steak and cheese sandwiches, both with fries. One coffee, one lemonade.”

She made a few brisk scribbles on her pad. “Swiss or cream cheese?”

Graves raised a silent eyebrow in Credence’s direction.

Credence reddened but answered, “Swiss.”

Privately, Graves felt that might be the second victory of the day, and perhaps just as significant as the first.

“Swiss it is. But hold the pickles,” Graves said, and, with a conspiratorial smile at the waitress. “And the boiled cabbage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again for all your lovely comments - I had such a good time writing this and it's great seeing people enjoy it :)


	4. Chapter 4

One of the main downsides of having an unofficial job, Graves thought, was having an unofficial office. He could have sequestered one of the rooms at the Abditum but they were, in the main, rather dingy and smelled unpleasantly of disuse. The desk in the corner of his sitting room was preferable by far, even if he did have to pile some of his papers on the floor. 

Possibly he could put up a couple of shelves, make a bit more space. Transfigure the desk into one larger and more suitable--a couple of enchanted drawers wouldn’t go amiss. But the idea of having to do so when he already had a perfectly good office, arranged exactly as he liked, was too provoking.

_That idiot keeping my desk at the Department warm had better not be making himself too comfortable_ , he thought. _Because I’ve no intention of letting him keep it longer than strictly necessary_.

He missed having a secretary. He missed walking through the rank and file every morning at precisely two minutes past nine and watching them sit up a little straighter in their seats. He had never thought he was that kind of man but, apparently, he had been wrong. He was very much that kind of man and, now he was aware of it, planned to continue being so with great enthusiasm.

Graves made a note to ask Goldstein to meet him for a coffee. She would be inordinately keen to check up on him--and on Credence, too--and wouldn’t be able to resist, even if she’d been told to keep her distance. A little information exchange was called for--he needed to find out what was going on at the Department in his absence.

On his desk that afternoon was a bill for his account at Apfel’s, a letter from Scamander, and a pile of notes on Credence to be condensed into his weekly brief to Seraphina. 

The bill was easily taken care of--just a short note to say he'd be down to settle it in person tomorrow afternoon. The letter required a little more of his attention--Scamander had turned out to be a prolific conversationalist on paper, and an unusual and eccentric one at that. 

> _No, I've never come across a Snallygaster,_ wrote Graves in his reply. _If one shows up in the Upper West side, you’ll be the first to know. We had a Fire Crab smuggling ring a while back--unfortunately some ne’er-do-wells like to fight them. Causes no end of mess._

Probably Scamander was well-versed in the unsavoury side of beast sports. Why hadn’t anyone approached him to advise more generally on such matters for the Department? A missed opportunity. Graves was sure that, if he’d been conscious and able to speak, he would have raised this with Seraphina before Scamander had left the city.

> _I’m sure you’ve come across this kind of thing many times. As soon as I get properly back to work, I want to put a team on it. Handling magical creatures is clearly a weak spot of ours, and just at a time when we can't afford to have any. Your advice and knowledge would be very useful so if anything occurs to you feel free to send your ideas my way._
> 
> _Your enquiries after Credence have found the perfect target--out of all the wizards in the country, I'm now best placed to answer them._

Here was a delicate matter--Graves paused to consider exactly how much he should share on this point. Strictly speaking, he couldn’t share anything at all but, after everything he’d done for both Credence and himself, Scamander was deserving of something more than a generic answer.

> _Let's just say MACUSA have recognised what a special young man he is and, for the time being, have put me in charge of his education. From what I've seen, he's in rude health, magically-speaking. The rest of him is doing as well as can be expected. If you have more thoughts about any lasting effects he might be susceptible to, it would be a benefit to both of us to hear them._
> 
> _As for myself, though I believe my recovery to have long been over, it would seem I remain in a minority on that matter. There are a few unresolved points, I will admit--if having almost no memories at all of three months of my life can be called that--but I see no reason to lie about complaining. The leg is still a mystery to everyone--including myself. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it doesn’t. But it was about time I picked up a war injury of some sort, and I’ve overheard the cane described as ‘debonair’ more than once. Perhaps only a well-placed scar could top it for distinction._
> 
> _Here’s hoping the Dorset countryside doesn’t prove too boring for you--I imagine there’s much less chance of being stampeded by wild Erumpents there. But at least you’ll be able to get that book finished._
> 
> _I remain, as always, deeply in your debt etc._

And then, signing and sealing the letter, Graves turned his attention to his final task.

His notes on Credence were copious and it was blindingly obvious what the focus of his report should be. Credence’s very impressive array of wandless sparks had been an enormous step forward and, furthermore, proof his magic was crying out for formal instruction--precisely the kind of result Seraphina was interested in. But Graves found himself hesitant to phrase it in quite those terms.

It had been a great risk, to encourage Credence to relinquish the grip he had on his power like that. If it had backfired, it might have been a setback Credence would never have recovered from. But Graves’ instincts had told him it was what the boy needed--a demonstration he could wield magic without harm and, though he may not understand so yet, with a great deal of natural flair. The progress they could make together if Credence were permitted to use a wand was indeed something to contemplate. 

However, it was much too soon to call it a success and Graves was unwilling to stake his career on it. There was also the risk of over-excitement leading to rash actions; if others became involved too early, that would undoubtedly impede Credence’s development and also leave Graves in an uncertain position. As it was, there were six weeks left. Project Sailor Cub held the key to both their futures--eventually, Credence would take his rightful place in wizarding society and Graves would get his post back. If it failed… Well, that didn’t bear thinking about. Especially for Credence.

Therefore, Graves must be allowed to continue, and with as little interference as possible. He picked up his quill again and began.

> _A good second week with progress made in regards to Subject’s control issues. Both reliability and consistency of Subject’s magic is improving, evidenced by a number of controlled tests (the results of which are enclosed)._
> 
> _It is my observation that the Subject has been negatively affected by recent events (re: Operation Greybeard) and has developed, as a self-protective measure, an aversion to performing magic. Currently, this is the greatest obstacle to further progress being achieved._
> 
> _To counteract this, the Subject has been exposed to instances of magic which are unquestionably benign with the aim of normalising magic for the Subject as much as possible. To move this onto the next stage, it is my recommendation the Subject should be issued with a wand for use in practice, albeit on a conditional basis and subject to regular review._
> 
> _Recommendation: Subject to be issued with a wand, to be used only under my supervision and to remain in my care when not in use._
> 
> _Objectives of Recommendation:_
> 
> __
> 
> _
>   1. To further normalise magic for Subject
>   2. To speed up Subject’s learning
>   3. To advance Subject’s integration into wizarding society
> _

> 
> _As a side note, locating a suitable wand could also prove instructive, as it appears several have already had very strong reactions to the Subject. More information could assist our research and Subject’s development._

*

The next day’s session with Credence delivered further minor advancements. He looked almost relaxed when asked to try casting spells, certainly more so than he had on that first day. Then, Credence’s terror had been palpable, to the point that Graves almost could have imagined smoky tendrils of Obscurial darkness wisping around him. Though still solemn-faced and a little wide-eyed, Credence was growing increasingly comfortable with magic and the results were beginning to show it.

Wandlessly, he was now able to levitate small, light objects with a surprising degree of control and together they had practiced conjuring sparks again, with the aim of creating deliberate patterns. Graves would call out colours or demand they become spirals or columns and Credence rose so well to the challenge that even Graves was surprised. The sooner he could get Credence a wand, the better. 

Both of them parted that day with a quiet sense of achievement. All in all, it had been a promising morning and Graves left hoping that his afternoon would be as successful. He had arranged to meet Goldstein in the Park, and would drop into Apfel’s to settle his account on the way.

The store was squeezed in between a No-Maj bank on one side and a Chinese restaurant on the other--barely more than a doorway and a painted sign with a wand sprouting into an effusion of green leaves and apple blossom. Inside, the space was roomy and well-proportioned, with polished maple-wood shelving groaning with produce. The line at the counter was short but was made even shorter when Pomona Apfel herself spotted Graves over her pince-nez and waved him over.

She was a well-known figure and hard to miss, even without the social standing brought by being the owner of the city’s most famous wizard-run grocery store: small and neat, with an eye-catching pile of elaborately-coiled silver hair, and the highly competent manner of a woman who has long enjoyed her widowhood.

“Good afternoon, Mr Graves,” she beamed. “How nice it is to see you. I'm afraid I don't get to spend as much time in the store as I used to--not now we've opened another branch in the Village. Wonderful for business but the downside is I can't spend as much time with customers.”

A huge ledger was accio-ed over and Mrs Apfel leafed ponderously through it until she came to 'G’.

“Of course,” she whispered with a smile, “sometimes that can be considered an upside, as I’m sure you can appreciate. Ah, here we are.”

Graves paid and waited while Mrs Apfel made a note under his account. When she gave him his change, she fixed him with a reproving look and said, “I know it's really none of my business but a grown man really can't live on bread, cheese, and coffee.”

Graves opened his mouth to respond but she carried cheerfully on as if he hadn’t been just about to speak.

“My late husband was exactly the same--very fond of the finer things in life, really _very_ excellent taste, he had--but not a clue when it came to cookery. I expect you eat out a lot, don't you--and it’s not as if it isn’t possible to eat well in this city, provided one has the means.”

Rather than waste his energy, Graves closed his mouth again. It was a tactic which had always worked best with his mother and it came in useful for Mrs Apfel, too.

He took the offered receipt and was on the verge of bidding her goodbye with a polite smile, when Mrs Apfel leaned closer over the counter and said, in a confidential tone, “I am very glad indeed to see you looking so well, after”--here she lowered her voice dramatically--“after _everything that happened_. A terrible episode, I understand.”

Graves froze to the spot, unable to believe that even Mrs Apfel could bring up the matter so directly. Usually, when he sensed a conversation heading in that direction, Graves very firmly swerved them away from it.

And people _almost always_ did what Graves wanted them to.

Mrs Apfel patted him sympathetically on the arm. Graves managed to pull himself together enough to give her a curt nod, and then left. Swiftly.

Outside, the buildings glowed with warm sunshine and the people on the sidewalks flowed by like a burbling river. Their minds were free of the destructive mystery which had terrorised the city only a few months ago--No-Maj memories had been wiped clean and even the New York Ghost had moved on to the dangers of imported potions and the latest spring fashions. Grindelwald was already a distant memory--locked away in a German dungeon, awaiting a trial which would take years to be heard.

Graves pushed himself on to walk the couple of blocks to the Park, where Goldstein would be waiting. He had the uncomfortable and absurd feeling he was running away from something. But history was history; it was unchangeable. All he wanted was to leave his past where it belonged. No matter how unpleasant it might’ve been, there was nothing to fight against, now. Nothing else to do except get on with it.

Goldstein was standing under a tall spreading elm, looking so precisely like an undercover Auror that Graves sighed. Their meeting couldn't appear more clandestine even if she’d worn dark glasses and asked passers-by if the Hippogriff had left the nest yet.

When he approached, she was watching anxiously in the opposite direction and jumped when he spoke.

“At least let's sit down, Goldstein. It would draw less attention if I were to pull out a diamond ring and propose marriage.”

Goldstein flushed and frowned simultaneously. “Sorry sir.”

Graves turned and made for the nearest bench. That way he wouldn't have to see her trying to avoid noticing how he leaned on his cane. His leg hurt like hell all of a sudden--it must have been the walk.

“There's really no need to call me that,” he said, as they sat down. “Seeing how I'm no longer your boss.”

“But it's only temporary,” said Goldstein, frowning again. “Isn't it? Mr Leach hasn't actually been appointed as Director--Madam Picquery made that quite clear.”

“Doesn't matter,” Graves said. “Right now, I am not your boss. Which means anything I might've previously frowned upon--like, for instance, gossiping--I now no longer have an official view on. In fact, you might find I have a decidedly different opinion.”

“Oh, I see.” Understanding dawned on her face. She angled herself closer, to make it easier to talk. “Though I, _of course_ , have always followed your instructions to the letter, I personally don't see any harm in a little innocent gossip every now and again.”

“That's good to know,” Graves said. “I could have a few tidbits you might be interested to hear about, about a young man of our mutual acquaintance.”

She did look interested, and a little guilty to boot. “Yes, I suspected you might have. There may have been a bit of talk, in the Department.”

“Would there now? Any particular flavour of talk or just the general sort?”

“Most of it is that you've been seconded. It's not hard to guess what urgent matter you might suddenly have become involved with. Any more than that is just speculation--no one seems to really know anything definite.”

“What about Leach? Is he giving out any hints?” Graves said. “I bet he's making himself very comfortable--he's always wanted my job.”

Goldstein focused on her shoes. “Mr Leach hasn't said a word out of place. But. Well, it's his manner, more than anything.”

“Go on,” Graves said. “Don't hold back--give me the worst of it.”

“He might've… moved your office around.” Goldstein bit her lip. “And he fired Jeannie.”

“He did what?!”

“Alright, not technically. But he sent her back down to the typing pool. She's not at all happy.”

“I bet she isn't.” To think of his secretarial marvel--a woman so polite, efficient, and masterful at her art she had once even been able to persuade Seraphina not to disturb him--relegated to work as a common typist. It was beyond tragic. “Man’s either an idiot or evil genius, I’m not sure which. But he’s definitely a miserable flobberworm though, and one of the lowest kind.”

“Sir!” Goldstein did her best to look shocked but ended up snickering into her hand. Even Graves was able to crack a rueful smile.

“He’s not very popular, I can say that much,” she said, after a moment. “And he’s not been able to make any other changes.”

Graves nodded. “He’s only got caretaking powers.”

“So everything will be back to normal soon. Won’t it?”

When Graves, didn’t answer she said, more softly, “You’re not just on secondment, are you?”

Graves tapped his cane on the floor. “No,” he said, eventually. “Indefinite medical leave, they’re calling it.”

“Oh.” Goldstein shifted nervously in her seat. “Right.” 

“That’s for no one’s ears but your own.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Her voice had gone small and serious. Graves decided it was time for a change of subject.

“Would you like to hear about our mutual friend, now? He’s doing very well.”

“Is he? Oh thank Morrigan, he always looked so sad, so alone. If it’s possible for anything good to come out of all this, it’s him, I know it. He just needs a chance.”

“He certainly has that--he’s remarkable, I’ve never seen anything like it.” Graves paused. “He does still look sad, though.”

“Does he? Is he looking after himself? I wanted to check on him but, well, I’ve not been _instructed_ to stay away, it was just very heavily implied that I should steer clear. I guess I caused enough trouble getting him out of that horrible cell.” Goldstein sighed unhappily. “I hope he doesn’t think I’ve abandoned him.”

“No, no,” Graves said, distracted. “I’ll tell him you were asking after him.”

He thought he’d done right by not prying into the boy’s life, giving him a bit of space, but maybe he needed something else, something more like Goldstein would provide... But she interrupted his line of thinking before it could go any further.

“Does he have enough money? I know he gets an allowance but it can’t be a very great amount.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t asked. He seems to be managing well enough.”

A picture of Credence’s bowed shoulders and thin wrists appeared in Graves’ mind and his conscience pricked at him. Goldstein was right, of course. He had suffered much and had no one and nothing to show for it. Someone needed to watch out for him and if Goldstein couldn’t, then--

“I’ll find out,” Graves said. “If not, I can help him with that.”

“Oh good, thank you, sir--that would set my mind at rest,” said Goldstein. “Maybe I might bump into you both, one time? By accident, of course. Say, next week at Annie’s?”

Graves smiled at her. “Well... it would look very odd if you were to hurry away without speaking. In fact, it would be much less suspicious if you were to join us for some lunch.”

She beamed, then began to gather her coat and purse. “I’d better be going--I told them I was following up a lead on a hexing case, which means I need to actually return with some results.”

“Goldstein?” he asked, just before she left. “Have you really always followed my instructions to the letter?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and the regret in her eyes was too much for Graves to look at. “The ones you gave, anyway.” 

He nodded silently and Goldstein hurried off, back to her investigation, the Department, and Cromwell Leach. 

*

The little room was warm and cosy, flooded with golden spring sun. On the table was a piece of cherry pie and a steaming cup of black coffee. The coffee was an experiment--Credence didn't think he liked coffee but Mr Graves had, very much, at the diner and Credence had realised he didn't know how to make it. What if, for some reason, Mr Graves should come by and Credence couldn't offer him any? There had been no coffee at the church, only tea brewed very weak. It was very difficult to picture Mr Graves drinking weak tea, and even more difficult to picture him enjoying it.

So, Credence had bought some grounds and struggled with the stove top pot he'd found at the back of a cupboard, until it held something dark which smelled rich and bitter. Just this once, he'd told himself, he could try something new. Something to go with the pie Mr Graves had made him take home from the diner, the day before. 

His sandwich had been delicious and really he’d been much too full for dessert. Mr Graves had instead ordered two pieces of cherry pie to go and, when they prepared to leave, had pressed them both into Credence’s hands and told him to take them home and enjoy them. Credence had stammered out his thanks and walked home with the bag clutched close to his chest.

The first piece he’d eaten after dinner last night, with a tall glass of cold milk. The second he’d saved for this afternoon, a special treat all on its own. Mr Graves had said he wanted Credence to enjoy them, so that’s what Credence had done. 

It was syrupy-sweet, sticky and tangy and crumbly, and even managed to make the oily bitterness of the coffee almost pleasant. Credence closed his eyes and imagined Mr Graves sitting opposite, watching him with a dark twinkle which the old Mr Graves had never had. Credence knew that meant Mr Graves was laughing at him, but he didn't mind. He didn't mind at all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued kind words!! I have a classic Graves trope coming up in this chapter - hope you enjoy it :)

Graves’ morning had begun badly and much earlier than he preferred. Sleep, for once, had come easily the night before but he seemed doomed never to get a full night’s rest. He’d woken long before dawn, and though trying to force himself back to sleep had been exhausting the desired effect never materialised. When a cold grey light started to poke through the drapes he’d given in and gone to make coffee.

Breakfast had been unthinkable at that time in the morning, so, one cup of strongest coffee later, a shower had looked inviting: hot running water, clouds of steam, and the world reduced to a little curtained cubicle. It did a man good to have nothing to think about, apart from to wonder if his razor should be sharpened. It cleared the mind and prepared him for the day ahead.

Afterwards, he studied himself in the mirror. Even through the bathroom mist he looked old: greyer than he remembered and more pinched. Tired and worn-out. But there was nothing good waiting if he were to let himself wander down that particular path. Introspection didn’t call to him often and he doubted it had anything positive to offer at present. He told himself it was only the early hour which had prompted it, turned his back on his reflection, and went to dress.

Over breakfast--and more coffee--Graves dug out all the reports which mentioned Credence’s background and read through them again. Much detail was missing as the information was primarily from the surveillance of the so-called church his mother had run. Credence had then been incidental, a mere side-note. The report following Goldstein’s demotion gave Graves more pause than the rest--and not only because he’d supposedly been the one to order it.

Despite her own doubts, Goldstein was a good Auror. Her instincts were sound--presumably that was why Grindelwald had tried to distance her from Credence--and her follow-through was usually, if anything, a little over-cautious. For her to have attacked a No-Maj, and with witnesses too, was extremely out of character. It was reported the only thing she’d said in her defence was she was ‘just trying to protect him’.

Transcripts from the later interviews with Credence were not much more revealing. Initially, he had displayed signs of extreme shock and either refused to speak or couldn’t. Some time after that came a series of painful cross-examinations where Credence struggled to explain what had happened to his mother and elder sister. His memories were fogged and many of the details were lost--either buried by trauma or swallowed by his Obscurus. Graves wished fervently that he’d been around to manage the situation better. His team had entirely failed to grasp the intricacies of interpreting someone’s statement when they had no real understanding of what had happened to them. Whether that was severe mistreatment or magic, the results were the same--a confused, garbled picture which helped no one. And it certainly didn’t help him with his current endeavour.

At 8am precisely, Seraphina’s eagle tapped on the window for entry. Graves noted grimly how, after delivering the message, Chrysopteron flew off without a backward glance. The note stated very simply: ‘ _Recommendation rejected--Subject to proceed without a wand. Continue with Project as directed.’_

Graves read it twice, ground his jaw, and successfully resisted the urge to screw it into a ball and throw it in the trash. Instead, he placed the note on top of his papers, and drank some more coffee.

*

Before he saw Credence that morning, Graves had come to a decision. He was going to do something to help, something Goldstein would be pleased about. Something more than he’d managed already.

But it wasn’t until their session that he knew the particular form his decision was going to take. Since meeting with Goldstein, he couldn’t help seeing Credence through her eyes. And what he saw was a downtrodden young man who needed a chance, exactly like she’d said. Teaching him magic was only part of it--someone had to watch out for him; to show him how a young wizard made his way in the world. 

Graves was quite sure he was not a natural candidate for the task, especially in his current circumstances. But as things stood, and probably unfortunately for Credence, there was no one else who could take up the mantle.

So, when Credence was deep into his summoning practice and Graves noticed his sleeves were a little too short, an idea arose. One that seemed so obvious he wondered how he’d missed it. For there were things other than magic that Graves could teach Credence about. 

“Credence,” he said. “You busy this afternoon?”

*

Simply standing outside had caused Credence to freeze into a statue. To stop him bolting, Graves put a hand on the small of his back and said, “I've known Mr Rubinacci for a very long time. No need to worry--he'll take good care of you.”

Credence flicked his eyes up to Graves’ and held them doubtfully. He didn't speak, just wore an imploring expression which seemed to plead for Graves to make him disappear entirely. But, after a moment, he twitched his head in a reluctant, jerky nod.

“Good boy,” Graves said, and applied a tiny bit of pressure to his back. Credence's anxiety-tight shoulders heaved once in a deep breath and he started forwards for the door.

Beyond it was a calm and ordered space furnished in deep, warm colours. It made Graves feel better immediately--a place which rang out with quality and tradition. Fabric swatches floated above the counter, while sample garments were displayed on mannequins, dotted sparsely about the room. A couple of comfortable leather armchairs completed the ambience.

A glance at Credence confirmed he was less convinced.

Graves patted him on the shoulder and said, “Mr Rubinacci, may I introduce you to Credence Barebone? He’s interested in purchasing some additions to his wardrobe and I, of course, suggested he come to you.”

Graves caught Credence sneaking him a look out of the corner of his eye. The implication that any of this had been his idea obviously rankled. Graves hid his smile and carried on.

“Just the basics to begin with,” he said, as Mr Rubinacci rounded the counter to shake Credence’s hand warmly. “A new suit, a few shirts. Perhaps some ties.”

Credence quailed visibly and, had Mr Rubinacci not distracted him with his enthusiastic greeting, he would probably have turned to Graves and begged to leave right there and then.

“Welcome, welcome!” Mr Rubinacci said, still grasping Credence’s hand. “Of course, anything the young gentleman would like, I would be very happy to assist. We have had some excellent new fabrics in recently--a beautiful dark blue Biella wool worn by all the best wizards in Milan and silk woven in the traditional manner by Chinese house-elves. Are you looking for dress robes, at all?”

Mr Rubinacci made an elegant gesture with his wand and a handful of swatches detached themselves from their place over the counter and swirled around Credence’s head. From within their midst, his gaze grew a touch more desperate.

“I believe dress robes can wait for now,” Graves said. “Why don’t you browse a little, Credence, while I speak with Mr Rubinacci about this silk?”

The idea had been to let Credence familiarise himself with the store, in his own time and without the added pressure of Mr Rubinacci’s presence. But his eyes went as large as saucers at the suggestion and Graves changed tack at rapid pace.

“Or, maybe I could offer my opinion?” Graves said, uncertain if Credence would think that any better--perhaps he wouldn’t like Graves standing over his shoulder, either. “Help you decide?”

“Please,” Credence managed, grasping with both hands at what he obviously considered a lifeline.

“It’s his first fitting,” Graves said to Mr Rubinacci. “He’s very excited about it, but there’s so much to choose from. You know how it is.”

“A young man’s first bespoke suit is a special occasion,” Mr Rubinacci said, in a tone of wise sympathy. “An important milestone, almost as important as one’s first wand. I will leave you in Mr Graves’ very capable hands, young man, but should you need anything at all please do not hesitate to call.”

He slipped away unobtrusively. Graves tried not to smart over the fact that he’d had to bring Credence to a tailor’s instead of a wandmaker’s. _Soon_ , he reminded himself. Seraphina’s refusal was simply a little delay. And at least Credence would look the part when they did eventually find him a wand. 

So Graves beckoned Credence over to one of the mannequins and started to explain the subtle intricacies of gentlemen’s attire. He drew Credence’s attention to the variations of fit and form, number and location of pockets, fabric weights and lining colour. Credence listened carefully to every single word but with the unmistakable air of someone who felt it had no practical application for them whatsoever. Seraphina’s cat would probably have given him the same look if he’d bothered to discuss with it the merits of horn versus vegetable ivory buttons.

To counter this, he summoned a catalogue and pointed out a few pertinent suggestions.

“This sort of thing will do you very well, Credence,” he said. “You have height and this will bring it out. Nothing too loose or too slim, either. Always better to err on the side of caution for your first suit. And colour, hmmn. Any preferences?”

It was then Graves noticed that Credence’s brows had drawn together in a most alarming display of anguish.

“Credence? What’s wrong?” Graves cast the book aside and tried to catch his lowered gaze. “Do you want to come back another time?”

If anything, Credence slumped into himself even more. He shook his head.

“It’s all too much,” he said, so quietly Graves had to strain to hear him. “I can’t accept any of this.”

Graves straightened up and looked around the little store, hoping for inspiration to strike from somewhere. They’d already had this discussion over lunch and he’d managed to get Credence to agree then. “Has something happened to change your mind?”

“I didn’t realise there was so much to it,” said Credence. “All the choices. And the cost. It’s-- You mustn’t, really. I don’t need any of this.”

“But--” _I want to,_ Graves nearly said. _This is what I can give you--maybe all I can give you._ “There’s no need to worry about the cost--I have no one to provide for but myself, and I could do that easily three times over. The choices I can guide you through. But you do need this, Credence. Maybe it’s too soon for you to pick it up and make it yours, but there’s a new life waiting for you and this is an important step towards it.”

Credence gave him a doubtful look but it caused a flame of hope to spring into life in Graves’ chest. Plus he had a final card to play.

“Don’t forget you are technically my protégé,” Graves said. “And, as such, you should look the part. In the old days, before formal schooling, we used to take on apprentices. Some old-fashioned wizards might even say I am already responsible for this sort of thing.”

Graves watched Credence, still frowning, look him up and down, and wondered what he saw. Did the starched crispness of his shirt and the careful lines of his suit make the same impression on him as they did everyone else? It was impossible to say--apart from his customary wariness, Credence’s gaze was utterly inscrutable.

But, exactly as Graves had hoped, the logic of these not _entirely_ spurious words were insurmountable. Once Credence had finished his silent assessment, some of the weight lifted from his shoulders.

“Really?” he asked. “I wouldn’t want to let you down, Mr Graves, if what you say is true.”

“I’m confident there’s no danger of that,” said Graves. “Now, let’s get on with business, shall we?”

Between them they managed to settle on a style which Graves knew would make his coltish-ness elegant, smoothing his awkward angles into something long and lean. Perhaps a proper fit across the shoulders would even improve his posture. Any colour or embellishment was rejected out of hand, however. Though Graves argued for a rich deep blue--he knew burgundy would be too daring and didn’t suggest it, no matter how much it would suit him--Credence chose the plainest, simplest things in black and sober charcoal. 

After that, Mr Rubinacci took Credence off to be measured, full of compliments for _“the young man’s well-advised choices”_ and practically effervescent over his _“marvellous height”_. Credence went willingly, though not without at least one backward glance at Graves, as though hoping he might come along and supervise. But Graves made himself comfortable in an armchair and passed a tranquil half-hour of solitude until Mr Rubinacci appeared once more.

“Nearly done, Mr Graves,” he said. “Would you care to see how it’s coming along while the chalk is finishing up? I will just be a moment--must pay a little visit, if you catch my meaning.”

Graves put aside the copy of _The Well-Dressed Wizard_ he’d been idly flicking through and stepped through the curtained partition.

Credence turned when he heard Graves enter. He was stood on the fitting platform, looking both resigned to his fate and fascinated by the enchanted chalk which hovered round him. Every so often, it dipped in close to make a minor adjustment to the markings already drawn over his unfinished suit. Pieces of fabric were tacked together by magic and kept in place until the garments were ready to be hand-finished by both wand and needle. It was still a touch large and sloppy in places, and the fabric edges were raw and untrimmed, but already it made an enormous difference. Without the juvenile style of his old clothing, Credence looked more like the thoughtful, solemn young man which lay under his usual lost-boy appearance. 

Graves smiled at him. “How does it feel?”

Credence's face was very pale, caught between the sombre suit and his dark hair. He offered Graves a small but very genuine smile in return, which Graves took as a very positive sign indeed.

“Not so bad as you feared?” Graves circled the platform and considered the job Mr Rubinacci had done so far. “We'll soon have you fixed up and ready to take your rightful place in wizarding society. Maybe you might be in need of dress robes, after all?”

“Dress robes?” echoed Credence. “What are they?”

“They’re worn on formal occasions--like No-Maj evening dress.”

Close up, it struck Graves that Credence’s should be velvet--even if he insisted on more black, it would still emphasise the richness of his soft dark eyes and smooth complexion. As soon as the thought crystallised, Graves felt its inappropriateness with a jolt. He dropped his gaze with some haste and instead watched the chalk going about its duty somewhere behind Credence’s left elbow.

“Oh,” Credence said, with no little amount of surprise. Of course it would not occur to him that he might need such a thing. “But why--”

He was interrupted by Mr Rubinacci’s rather timely return. “Ah, good, good,” he exclaimed. “Yes, that’s coming along beautifully, don’t you agree, Mr Graves?” 

“Yes, beautifully,” Graves agreed. And to Credence he said, “Let’s worry about that later, shall we? No need to concern yourself.”

Behind him, Mr Rubinacci smoothly took over, covering his somewhat awkward exit. His voice followed Graves all the way back to his seat.

“Now, please do take extra care to check the wand pocket is in the right place,” it said, growing fainter once he’d ducked back through the curtain. “It is possible to adjust the extension charm but the results are much more satisfactory if we get it right first time. It can play havoc with the drape of the material.”

Graves waited with rigid patience until Credence’s fitting was over. His former ease had vanished and the magazine he ignored entirely, lest he should accidentally come across dress robe designs or any mention of velvet at all.

To say he was stunned with the turn his thoughts had taken was an understatement. Later, he would reason with himself that he often noticed in others a well-shaped mouth or a defined jawline; he noticed them, and he moved on, like he’d always done. No harm, no foul, and no need to panic. No need to get involved.

That would be later, however. When he had time to think and pull himself together. First, though, he had to deliver Credence back home and complete the task he’d set out to achieve.

“Come along then,” he said to Credence, once he’d emerged, slightly dazed, from the fitting room. “Let’s see where they’re keeping you.”

*

Judging by the grim resolve Credence displayed before they Apparated, it wasn’t Credence’s first Side-Along. He went only a little green and recovered quickly, enough to shyly explain that his apartment was just around the corner and to ask if Graves would care to come inside.

As this was precisely what Graves wanted, he agreed immediately. Goldstein had asked if Credence was looking after himself, and next time he saw her Graves had determined to give a definitive answer. There was no better way to find out than by seeing with his own two eyes how Credence was living.

While Credence fumbled for the key, he gave Graves an odd look over his shoulder, and when they got inside blurted out, “You don’t smell like him.”

Graves went absolutely still. His heart might even have temporarily stopped beating, though he couldn’t be sure.

“Sorry,” Credence said, folding back into himself. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. When we Apparated, I knew there was something-- It was bothering me, because I couldn’t place what it was. That’s all.”

Graves’ mind provided him with several excruciatingly rational explanations for this statement, some of them very sternly delivered. It didn’t help at all. A terrible stomach-churning rage burst into life inside him; his magic boiled with it.

“Credence,” he said, hopefully with every appearance of calm. “How--exactly--do you know what he smelled like?”

Credence blushed furiously. “It was nothing. Really.” He went over to the tiny kitchen and occupied himself with making coffee, his back to Graves. “He would just stand very close, sometimes. Like when he gave me that necklace.”

And that was another perfectly rational explanation, one which Graves had no reason to doubt was the truth. But the balm of relief was short-lived and his hot anger turned to a queasy sourness. However innocently--if it could ever be described such--Grindelwald had still been close to Credence, had touched him with hands supposed to be Graves’ own. Neither of them could ever escape it--he would continue to be the lens through which Credence viewed him. 

Sometimes Graves succeeded in forgetting, just for a few moments. But there was always some new layer of difficulty to confront--someone who tried to continue on a conversation they’d never had or some remembered possession he couldn’t bear to retrieve from his old apartment. The fight to just be himself again was endless.

“I’d better be getting along,” he said. “You’ve had a long day, and I’m sure you’d like some peace and quiet.”

“Oh but--” Credence said. “I made coffee.”

He looked uncertainly at Graves, and Graves felt the full magnitude of his tentative offer hit him straight in the chest. 

Credence was so fragile, so easily crushed. The harm which could be done through one wrong word or look was immense. He decided there and then he would swallow the turn his mood had taken, rather than risk such a thing.

“Coffee sounds good,” Graves said, and seated himself at the kitchen table. 

Credence smiled quietly and, bringing over two cups of coffee, sat opposite. He didn’t make much conversation but if he wanted Graves to stay, Graves wouldn’t argue. They remained there companionably, and mostly in silence, while Graves absorbed the sparse surroundings of Credence’s tiny apartment. He tried to avoid thinking of the supple texture of velvet, or noticing how expressive Credence’s eyes could be even when his face was schooled into careful blankness. He definitely avoided thinking about how that was becoming less and less often.

Later, Graves would tell himself he had much to worry about. And he was certain that, somehow, it was all Goldstein’s fault that he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rubinacci is a well-known bespoke tailoring family so I thought it stood to reason there would be a wizard among them :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** for a brief reference to suicidal thoughts.

The next morning, Credence went to his appointment with Mr Graves with an odd mix of feelings. The day was a Saturday so tomorrow he would not see him at all. His presence had become important; a source of both solace and strange longings. Credence knew it was wrong to feel so, and even more wrong to wish for his company in places it did not belong--such as at his kitchen table, drinking coffee. But knowing this could not stop his ache of pleasure at the memory. 

It didn’t help that Mr Graves seemed to enjoy that morning’s lesson more than usual. Credence was so distracted by both his nearness and his enthusiasm that he had to be shown three times the proper way to turn a china cup into glass. Mr Graves had then corrected Credence’s hand gestures _with his own fingers_ and Credence had suffered deeply from the certain knowledge of how unworthy he was of Mr Graves’ regard.

Whatever else his Ma had said and done, she had been right when she called him sinful. There was no other way to describe his thoughts of Mr Graves or the particular fascination he held for him. But he consoled himself with the understanding that, now he was an acknowledged practitioner of magic, sin must occupy a very different position in his life. By his old standards he dealt with it daily--courted it, in fact, in his pursuit of magical learning. And he was beginning to feel the injustice keenly. For he could no more help the magic in his blood than he could his partiality for Mr Graves. In fact, Credence was quite sure that anyone who had met him would share in his opinion--in that sense, it seemed entirely natural to have such feelings.

The real problem was that Mr Graves clearly had no inkling of them, and Credence dreaded to think of the necessary shame should he find out. All he could do was try to be deserving of Mr Graves’ kindness and generosity; continue to study and practice hard, and keep his burden locked up tight in his heart. That way he would not impose upon Mr Graves any more than he could help.

Mr Graves’ insistence of buying him a suit had strayed dangerously close to that line and Credence had not been strong enough to withstand his arguments. He had to own that the idea of spending an entire afternoon in Mr Graves’ company had weakened him enough to initially accept. The result had been an event both mortifying and exhilarating, and as sweet as anything Credence had ever known. Until the finished garments arrived, he wouldn’t be able to believe it had really happened.

None of this was helping his concentration. The cup was still--after an hour’s practice--identical to how it had begun the morning, only perhaps a _little_ less opaque. But Mr Graves seemed unperturbed.

“No need to be disheartened,” he said. “Transfiguration is exceptionally difficult and it’s usual for progress to be slight at first. It’s the _practice_ which is important.”

Seemingly from nowhere, he produced what seemed to be an ordinary tennis ball and pressed it into Credence’s palm.

“I think we should have some fun now,” said Mr Graves. “Educational fun, maybe. But still fun.”

He moved away, across to the other side of the room, leaving Credence frowning at the ball. 

“Don’t hold it too tight but don’t drop it,” called Mr Graves.

Then he held out his hand and immediately Credence felt the ball tugged out of his grasp, straight into Mr Graves’. Credence stared at his empty hand. The sensation which had touched it had been strangely intimate and, for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely, caused no small amount of heat to spring to his face.

“Now you try,” Mr Graves said, grinning and holding the ball aloft.

The Accio spell was one Credence had had some success with--enough, anyway, to make this a realistic prospect. On his first attempt, the ball ended up rolling sluggishly from Mr Graves hand and onto the floor. But it was much like exercising a stiff muscle, and once Credence had made a couple more attempts he succeeded in plucking it from Mr Graves’ fingers and into his own.

He almost missed catching it--the tugging sensation was still there, and in reverse appeared to Credence even more intimate than before. It was caused, he recognised now, not by the physical hold Mr Graves had on the ball, but his _magical_ one. The tug was nothing less than the pull of Mr Graves’ will, a soft and weighty brush of something which had yielded to his own. The idea that his magic could touch another’s--that he could actually _feel_ another’s magic through his own--had not occurred to him before.

The flush he wore was quite different now; it came from a different kind of excitement, one borne from triumph and from the gleeful expression on Mr Graves’ face when he stole it straight back out from Credence’s hand. The better and more confident Credence grew, the fiercer and more devious their game became until they were both red-faced and quite out of breath.

“We must try that again sometime,” Mr Graves said, when they could continue no more. “But I’ll leave the No-Maj ball at home so we can have some real fun. A magical one will truly develop your reflexes.”

He summoned his cane from where it leant by the door and moved stiffly towards the benches. Credence followed and hoped his concern would not show on his face; he knew intuitively that Mr Graves would not appreciate it. 

“How is a magical ball any different?” he asked, as they both sat and Mr Graves stretched out his bad leg.

“Ours have a tendency to fly around on their own, and sometimes they aim straight for your head.” Mr Graves gave a fond smile. “Remind me to tell you about Quidditch later.”

If that was an accurate description of whatever Quidditch was, Credence thought it would be much too alarming for his taste. But he would listen happily to anything Mr Graves cared to say, whether it concerned Quidditch or not. 

“I suppose there are many things that I should tell you about.” Mr Graves tapped his cane thoughtfully on the floor, pursing his lips. “It’s hard to know where to begin.”

A heavy silence fell. The enormity of all the things he did not know, and all the ways he would never truly belong, loomed large in Credence’s mind. Any chance for belonging had been lost, long ago, even before Ma had found him. It had gone when he’d crossed the threshold of the orphanage. He would always be caught between two worlds and not quite at home in either of them.

But all he said was: “Yes, Mr Graves.”

Mr Graves was watching him closely, and with a confused sort of concern. There followed more silence, in which Mr Graves cleared his throat and Credence wondered if he was supposed to say something else. 

“You could always come home with me this afternoon and we can make a start,” Mr Graves said, his voice soft, almost hesitant. “Would you like that, Credence?”

This was exactly the kind of imposition he knew he should avoid, but Credence’s answer was out of his mouth before it could be stopped.

“Thank you, Mr Graves,” he said. “I think I’d like that very much.”

*

Mr Graves had encouraged Credence to make himself comfortable but Credence found he couldn’t easily settle. It didn’t seem right for him to sit at leisure while Mr Graves did whatever he was doing in the kitchen. Wandering about looking at Mr Graves’ things seemed even worse, and he ended up sitting rigidly on the most upright chair while his eyes sneaked guilt-ridden glances around the sitting room. 

There were so many wonderful details to take in, things he would hold close in secret later, when he was on his own. The furniture was dark and solid, and Mr Graves had a great many leather-bound books. Everything was uniformly neat and tidy, except for a desk by the window, which was covered with stacks of paper and magazines. It also held a half-empty bottle of whisky and a glossy black feather sticking out of an inkwell.

The desk was highly polished, a colour so rich and deep it appeared black, but the more Credence studied it the more he noticed subtle variations in tone and grain. There were hints of chocolate and coffee, of tar, even of caramel. Just looking at it gave him a warm, comfortable feeling. He would have liked to have touched it, felt its smoothness under his fingers, where Mr Graves might have idly lain his own when at work.

“Credence?” Mr Graves said from the door, making him jump. “Food’s ready if you’re hungry.”

“Sorry, sir.” Credence stood in a hurry and followed him out of the room, berating himself for daydreaming. He was doing that more and more these days. His thoughts, though freer than ever, were still not satisfied, and seemed to want to escape the confines of his mind and roam about unhindered.

Mr Graves halted. “There's no need to call me that, you know. Or Mr Graves. You're an adult, you don't work for me. Just Graves is fine.”

Credence nearly walked straight into the back of him. He blinked in surprise, trying to think of an answer.

Mr Graves sighed in resignation. “You have my permission, that's all,” he said. “Use whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Credence nodded, hoping that would be enough to convey his awareness of the honour being offered but also glad that Mr Graves had recognised the impossibility of it. Mr Graves’ name was beyond a formality; the shape of it slotted effortlessly into his mind. The gap it filled had been there long before they’d met and, now they finally had, it felt to Credence that this was the Mr Graves he had been supposed to find all along. ‘ _Just Graves’_ was unthinkable.

Mr Graves led them into the dining room, just off the kitchen and by itself about as large as half of Credence’s apartment. There were a pair of beautiful tall windows with heavy, silvery drapes. The table and chairs were made of the same kind of wood as the desk in the living room. And an ornate fireplace, lit with strange heatless flames, crackled merrily.

“I hope you like grilled cheese,” Mr Graves said, pulling out a chair for Credence. “I don’t really cook.”

On one end of the dining table were two plates, two cups of coffee, and a jug of water with matching glasses. On the other, looking very much like they had been shoved to the side to make room, were more piles of papers and a few loose scribbled notes. One of the piles was more orderly than the others, bound up with shining golden string. The typewritten cover read _Project Sailor Cub_.

Credence started. He’d always been good with his letters and its meaning was instantly to clear: _Project Obscurial._

“That’s about me, isn’t it?” he said.

It was a very big pile of papers, he noticed dully; a timely reminder of why the Director of Magical Security was taking such an interest in him. Sometimes it was easy to pretend that the small moments of happiness he met with along the way mattered to anyone but himself. Mr Graves was kind, Credence reminded himself sternly, but he was just doing his job.

“Yes,” Mr Graves said. “Yes, it is. Sit down, Credence, and eat your lunch before it gets cold.”

Credence obeyed automatically and took a bite of sandwich, but was unable to pull his eyes away from the file. Papers bulged under the tightly-wound string, containing many, many words, all about him and what he’d done. People talking and whispering about him, like they always had--mouths moving behind their hands as he passed by, eyes judging, thinking him freakish and pitiful. He hadn’t thought Mr Graves might do the same.

His throat was dry and tight and he had the awful feeling he might cry. He reached for some water but under his hand it turned to ice and, with a terrible cracking sound, shattered the glass into vicious splinters. 

Mr Graves caught his wrist before he could move. Credence froze but let his arm go limp in Mr Graves’ grasp. His hand was turned over and checked for injuries, which succeeded in forcing a tear to run hotly down the side of his nose. He realised then he was trembling. 

Mr Graves sighed heavily and released Credence’s wrist. The glass he mended easily, with a silent gesture.

“Credence, it’s okay,” he said. “Will you let me explain?”

Credence took a few steady breaths, in and out, until he could speak. “You left it there so I would see,” he said. “Why?”

Mr Graves leaned forward across the table but stopped short of reaching for Credence again. “I thought it was right you should know,” he said. “About everything. And that I’m on your side--I want to help you as much as I can.”

“Is this why you invited me here? What you wanted to tell me about?”

“One of many things,” Mr Graves said. “Better start with the difficult stuff, before we move onto the rest.”

He poked at his sandwich, and then abandoned it in favour of his coffee. Finally, he planted his elbows on the table and rubbed his face into his hands.

“I shouldn’t be telling you this at all,” he said, sitting up again and taking a deep breath. “You’ve been designated a national secret. You are a completely unprecedented situation and there are many more complications involved than you can possibly realise.”

There was a blankness pressing in around Credence, one which blotted out everything--the flames in the hearth, even the beating of his heart. A secret once again: he was so tired of hiding himself. If they wanted him to disappear, why would they not let him? It would be easier for everyone that way.

“We’re trying to keep knowledge of your past restricted,” Mr Graves said. “Details in the press have been kept to a minimum and no one outside of a select few know about the Obscurus.” He drank some coffee and set the cup down with a sharp clink. “I’m not just here to teach you magic. Your sessions are so I can assess your current abilities and make recommendations about your future. But you already know some of that, I think.”

Credence nodded, slowly. Of course he’d knew that. The things he’d been given--like his apartment and his small allowance, his time with Mr Graves--all of it had to be paid for, eventually. They hadn’t provided for him out of kindness. It was all just a test, even though sometimes it was nice to pretend otherwise.

Mr Graves reached across to squeeze his arm. Credence watched distantly, as if it was happening to someone else.

“I will help you, I promise,” he said. “You’ve already proved so much, I know you can get through this.”

The other Mr Graves, the wrong one, had promised to help Credence too. But not like this. Mr Graves sounded like he didn’t know if he would be able to but was going to try anyway. It was strangely reassuring.

Credence nodded again, and let out a long breath. “But why make me a secret? I don’t understand.”

“For one thing, once this is finished, no one will know anything about your past or your Obscurus.” Mr Graves said. “Which can only benefit you. But, mainly because… it’s a complicated world. Since the Great War, tensions haven’t lessened and some have grown. There is plenty of fear out there, and with fear comes those who would exploit it--who seek to cause chaos but call it freedom.”

“Like him,” Credence said.

“Exactly,” Mr Graves said. “There are others like him. There's a chance that if anyone else knew… Well, they might come looking for you. We can't risk that happening.”

Credence frowned, gripped by a new fear. “But it’s gone, hasn’t it? The darkness--that creature. They said it wouldn’t come back.”

“No, it won’t,” said Mr Graves. “It’s long gone, I promise. But there’s still you, Credence. Didn’t anyone ever explain to you how you’re still here?”

Credence shook his head.

“Children who develop an Obscurus usually don’t live very long at all. In fact, until you, the oldest known died at the age of ten.” Mr Graves broke off for a moment, then sought Credence’s gaze before he continued. “You survived more than twice that. And you’re the only witch or wizard who’s ever outlived an Obscurus. It is absolutely unheard of--a miracle, in fact--that you’re still alive.”

“They didn’t tell me that,” Credence said, somewhat dazed. “They said it was rare, that no one--apart from Newt--had seen one before, and they wanted to do all kinds of tests.” There was a sharp tight pain in his ribs and in his lungs, which made it hard to catch his breath. “I didn’t know.”

Slowly, his breath returned but the pain remained. Sometimes, after the very worst days at the church, he’d spent his sleepless nights wondering how easy it would have been to just give up and let the darkness take him. To simply stop trying and see if he could find relief that way; a different kind of darkness to the one which lived inside him--one soft and calm and quiet. But Mr Graves couldn’t know about that; couldn’t know how close to the truth he was. Maybe it really was a miracle.

“We believe you survived because you are exceptionally powerful,” said Mr Graves. “And you lived with it for so long we don’t know what effect it might have had on your magic. It makes you a very special individual.”

“They think I’m dangerous.” Everything Credence had experienced since he’d woken up in a soft warm hospital bed was suddenly very clear and very close. He’d tried to ignore it, hoped it would go away. But it wouldn’t. He was always going to be a freak, no matter what happened. “I’m just a problem, aren’t I? They’re afraid I still might tear their houses down; that I’m all twisted inside and can’t be trusted.”

Mr Graves frowned and took both of Credence’s hands in his own. “It’s true no one knows what to expect from you. But I’ve only found you to be a good student, a talented one, and a very gentle soul. And so will everyone else in time.”

Credence had tears in his eyes again. “But I hurt people. I killed them. That was me--I did that.”

Mr Graves squeezed Credence’s fingers tightly. Credence blinked down at them, trying to focus on that rather than the hot and wrenching pain in his chest. He watched his tears splash onto the back of Mr Graves’ hand.

“I know that’s how it feels. I also know it was the Obscurus, not you.” Mr Graves held on tighter and his voice shook a little. “You must try not to punish yourself for things which were out of your control. No good can come of it, believe me.”

It might not have been what Mr Graves had intended, but it worked. Credence was drawn out of his solitary misery to stare at him, a realisation dawning that Mr Graves wasn’t just speaking about his creature. Not for the first time, he wondered what Mr Graves’ dark hours were like.

“There was a war, Credence,” Mr Graves said, answering the unspoken question. “Many people you will meet have done things which they wish they hadn’t. Things that seemed to be their best option at the time. Myself included.”

Mr Graves’ face seemed to be very close. The strange firelight cast a cool gold glow over his skin; it caught on the lines around his eyes and deepened the shadows underneath. When Mr Graves looked at him, Credence nodded to show he’d understood. He felt like he had never understood so much before.

Mr Graves gave him a weak smile. “Well, that’s the difficult stuff over with. Now I can tell you about Quidditch.” 

Credence wiped his face mostly dry and found himself smiling back. The pain in his chest was different now; lighter, no longer weighing him down. 

Mr Graves disentangled his fingers from Credence’s and went back to drinking his coffee. Credence reached for his sandwich: it was still warm. It felt like they’d been talking for hours but it had only been a couple of minutes. Everything was exactly the same as it had been, yet Credence felt quite different.

Even Mr Graves looked the same. His posture had shifted, back into his habitual casual confidence. He surveyed the room idly, tapping a finger on the tabletop, before turning his gaze to Credence again. 

“When you go home today,” he said, “the thing I want you to remember is that I am here as your friend. I may have been given a job to do but--” He stopped and pointed at Credence’s untouched coffee cup. “Was there something wrong with it? Did you want sugar?”

Credence blushed and tried to hide behind the sandwich. “Oh no, the coffee is fine, I just-- I don’t really like it.”

“But--” Mr Graves started, and then didn’t continue. His frown did, though. Credence could see him thinking about the coffee he’d served them both, at his own table, as if he did that all the time.

Credence felt his blush deepen. He concentrated very hard on his grilled cheese and only heard Mr Graves say: “Would you prefer tea, perhaps?”

And, by the time Credence had looked up, Mr Graves was already out of his seat. Credence’s protests about not putting him to any trouble were too late--he’d already swept from the room, so Credence followed.

In the kitchen, he saw Mr Graves tap the kettle with his wand and order a stream of tea leaves into a teapot. The kettle began to whistle almost immediately. A wave of his hand brought forth a tray, milk, cups, and saucers, who all arranged themselves with geometric precision. 

“Why do we have wands if we can do magic without them?” Credence asked, his quest to prevent unnecessary tea-making hopelessly distracted by Mr Graves’ authoritative movements and perfectly wonderful magic.

“Wands are better for many things--they give a more precise effect.” Mr Graves turned to Credence. “And not everyone has your aptitude for wandless magic. Many can’t do it at all. I only mastered it after years of practice.”

Credence gaped a little. Mr Graves’ magic always seemed so effortless and elegant. To imagine him practising and getting it wrong, like Credence did, added a fond warmth to the odd new feeling in his chest. 

Mr Graves laughed and gave him a brilliant smile. “I don’t flatter people, Credence,” he said. “If I say your abilities are exceptional, then I mean it.”

Credence flushed again, possibly right down to the tips of his toes, and immediately resolved to study even harder, so he could do his best to live up to Mr Graves’ belief in him.

“Let’s bring lunch in here,” Mr Graves said, shooing him out of the kitchen and this time into the sitting room. “Now that we understand one another better, some informality can’t hurt.”

The tea tray floated before them and settled onto a coffee table. Credence’s sandwich followed. Mr Graves looked inside the teapot and wrinkled his nose, stirring it with a quick twirl of his wand.

“I hope I’ve made this right. I only keep it for Seraphina and she usually makes it.” With a glance at Credence, he said, “That’s Madam Picquery to you.”

“Oh,” Credence said. Of course she did. Of course she visited often, and Mr Graves would keep tea for her. And she would know where all the cups and the milk were kept, and would not need permission to go into the kitchen to make it. They would look very marvellous sitting together, talking and smiling and drinking tea. And maybe doing other things, which Credence tried not to think of.

“We go back a long way,” Mr Graves said, pouring a thin stream of pale tea into a china cup and frowning his displeasure at it. He caught sight of Credence’s face and his dawning understanding, and his frown grew even more severe. “Not like _that._ ”

“Oh,” Credence said again, wishing he could disappear. There must be a spell to make that happen. He should probably try learn it, if so. It would be very useful.

There was a slightly strained silence. To cover it, Credence crouched by the tray and relieved Mr Graves of his tea-making duties. He didn’t seem comfortable with them and Credence wanted to be occupied. The tea was very weak but luckily that was how Credence was used to it. Feeling reckless, he heaped a spoon of sugar into his, along with lots of milk.

Mr Graves took the cup Credence held out with some amusement, then raised it in a toast. “Here’s to us: the New York Branch of the Gellert Grindelwald Survivors’ Group.”

Credence nearly dropped his cup; he burst into startled laughter and it rattled violently on its saucer. He set them down quickly and covered his mouth, horrified at himself for laughing at something so awful-- _especially_ after the terrible things Mr Graves must have suffered.

Mr Graves laid a hand on his shoulder and patted it. “Sometimes laughing is the only thing you can do.”

Credence gave a shaky breath, and then another, and then laughter was pouring freely out of him. Mr Graves watched for a moment, then joined in. His teeth were very white and his smile was so kind, and the difference between Mr Graves _then_ and Mr Graves _now_ was so obvious, it just fed Credence’s laughter until he couldn’t stop even when he tried. His chest hurt, his face hurt, he couldn’t breathe. His fingernails were digging into his knees. He thought he might be crying again--someone was making great loud gulping sounds and his face was wet, and he felt a pair of hands pull him against something warm and solid.

“That’s right,” Mr Graves was saying, very close to his ear. “Just let it out. No one here but me, you don’t need to pretend anymore. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Credence slowly realised his fingers were clutching at Mr Graves’ waistcoat and he’d wet his shirt through from his tears. He forced himself to calm down, his lungs straining for air with shuddering, trembling heaves. Even so, he felt better, like a storm which had travelled with him for miles had now finally passed on. All that was left was a empty thrumming static in his veins.

He pulled back, thinking he should be ashamed of himself, at being so weak in front of Mr Graves. But he wasn’t, not at all. How could he when Mr Graves was being so gentle and he felt so safe. Mr Graves brushed his knuckles over his face. He looked concerned. Credence wanted to tell him not to be but couldn’t make any sound come out of his mouth.

“Maybe I should keep the bad jokes to myself,” Mr Graves said. He wore a deep and troubled frown.

Credence shook his head. Before he knew what he’d done, he’d taken hold of Mr Graves’ wrist to keep his hand in place. From both of them came a sharp intake of breath--Credence was so close he felt the swell of Mr Graves’ chest near his own.

Neither of them spoke, and Credence had the unmistakable feeling he was begging for something he couldn’t have and shouldn't want. But he realised, much too late, that he had no desire to stop wanting--and no idea at all how to stop himself from asking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your amazing comments!! I’m behind on replying this week but I'm so happy you’re enjoying it :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope none of you were expecting an excruciatingly slow burn :)

Graves gripped the chair arm and held himself stock-still. Before him, on his knees, was Credence, still draped half across Graves’ lap. His hot cheek was pressed to Graves’ knuckles and he stared upwards, frozen, like he didn’t know what to do now he’d found himself here. Or like he was hoping Graves would do it for him.

This was quite the situation--one Graves was totally unprepared for. How to act _should_ have been obvious--Credence was upset, starved for affection, and painfully easy to take advantage of. A kind but firm refusal shouldn’t cause too much damage, especially laced with regret that things between them could not take that particular course. But was that really the right thing? Why should Credence’s loneliness be a reason to deny him what he asked for?

Especially when Graves wanted to give him it.

He leaned slowly forward and captured the soft line of Credence’s mouth with his own. He was only human, after all. 

A warm puff of surprise left Credence’s lips; then he was melting forward into the kiss, almost hypnotised. His hands clutched at Graves’ knees hard enough to hurt. Graves’ cradled his jaw and drew him closer, wanting to wrap him up and keep him safe, just for a little while. His skin was smooth under his palm, his lips dry. He had developed a habit of chewing on the bottom one, Graves remembered, as he drew his tongue along their crease. Credence made a quiet happy sound, so Graves encouraged his mouth open with gentle licks, until instinct overtook him and he was kissing Graves with frantic but inexperienced hunger. 

Graves’ hands slid down Credence’s neck to where his pulse fluttered rapid and strong. In return, Credence loosened hold of Graves’ knees; his hands crept tentatively up to cling around his shoulders. Already he’d learned how to tilt his head to slot their mouths together, how to slow their kisses to something deep and possessive and sweet. Graves opened his eyes and the dazed look of pleasure on Credence’s face caused him to say the wrong thing.

“ _Credence,”_ he breathed, nothing more than a statement of simple want.

But Credence’s eyes flew open, startled. He scrambled back from Graves in horror, fingers pressed white over his mouth. 

The words on the tip of Graves’ tongue were: _I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have_. But he stopped himself when he recognised how they would sound to Credence’s ears. A rejection; confirmation that he was wrong to want to be kissed and held; fuel to add to the hellfire of his upbringing. 

Instead, he reached his hands out to Credence, palm up--a clear and undemanding invitation. Credence regarded them seriously before slowly uncurling himself enough to slide his own hands over Graves’. Graves grasped hold and pulled him close again, so he was kneeling cradled between his thighs. Credence hid his face in Graves’ neck, his body tight with tension in Graves’ arms.

“It’s okay to want what you want,” Graves said. “It really is. It isn’t wrong and it is reciprocated. Okay?”

There was a pause and a small sniff. Credence relaxed a little and shifted slightly, to rest his head more comfortably on Graves’ shoulder. He nodded.

“Good boy,” Graves said, rubbing his back. “Does that mean you can bear to look at me again?”

Credence turned his head and gave Graves such a derisive half-scowl he almost laughed. Instead, he smiled and made a mental note that, when it came to Credence’s self-consciousness, a little gentle teasing could work wonders. 

“Maybe you’d better finish your tea,” Graves said, thinking this pause in proceedings was for the best. “We can talk after, or tomorrow even.”

Credence stiffened again. He said nothing at all but the look in his eye was hurt, nearly accusatory.

“Credence?”

Credence shook his head and started to disentangle his long limbs from Graves’. Against his better judgement, Graves held tight and prevented him from pulling away. Credence immediately fell still; it had the uncomfortable hallmark of someone used to punishment who was simply waiting for the next blow to fall. 

Graves sighed. None of this was going to plan. Not that he even had one anymore.

There no longer seemed any point in holding back so he pressed a single kiss to Credence’s forehead. It was smooth and blank and gave him few clues to what Credence was thinking.

“If there’s something you want, you can ask me for it,” he said. “In fact you’d better, because every time I try to guess, I seem to get it wrong.”

There was another pause, then Credence’s chest swelled with a deep intake of breath.

“You think it’s a mistake,” he said. “You’re going to talk me out of it, later. You’ll say I’m confused and a lot has happened and I should concentrate on finding my place in the magical world.” He sat up straighter and fixed Graves with a reproachful stare. “You say there’s nothing wrong with what I want but you still won’t let me have it.”

Graves touched his cheek. “Credence,” he said, and this time it sounded like a plea. “Credence. What is it you want?”

Credence gaze softened. His mouth was still plump and red from Graves’ kisses. “You, Mr Graves,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. But an unhappy line appeared between his brows. “I don’t know exactly what that means but I want to be able to find out. I don’t want anyone to tell me what to think or feel, ever again.”

Graves swallowed rather heavily. Exactly how much everything had spun out of his control was now clear and it made his breath come short. This was precisely why he didn’t get involved with anyone, _ever_. But Credence needed this; said he needed him.

“Okay,” he agreed. “Okay. Whatever you want from me now, you can have it.” He leant forward to press his lips to Credence’s. “Just take what you need.”

Credence was still timid and mistrustful; he didn’t yet believe Graves’ promises. So Graves kissed him deep and slow. He let Credence learn the slide of a tongue against his own; the touch of someone else’s lashes against his cheek. He kissed Credence until his hair was mussed and his eyes were bright. When he finally pulled back, Credence had high spots of colour on his cheeks and lips were breathlessly parted. He made a frustrated sound, and leaned up to chase Graves’ mouth again.

“I just want you to feel good,” Graves said, against his soft, wet lips. “Don't worry about anything else.” 

Graves ran his fingers through his hair and, when he massaged his scalp, Credence sighed. His fingers were wound white-knuckled into Graves’ shirt but his back was bowed with a different kind of tension. His hips gave occasional involuntary twitches but found nothing except empty space to urge into.

Carefully, Graves moved his good leg so his shin pressed gently between Credence's kneeling thighs. Credence snapped his head up, eyes and mouth wide in shock.

“Take what you need,” Graves reminded him. He kept absolutely still and let Credence come to his own understanding. 

Credence stared with dawning amazement. Graves smiled encouragingly at him, moving his leg so it brushed lightly against the boy’s groin. The hardness there was immediately apparent. Credence’s hips jerked forward--he gasped and tightened his grasp in Graves’ shirt. He looked worried, near frightened, as if he half-expected to receive censure and disgust. But Graves just soothed a hand down Credence’s spine.

“Would you like me to touch you?” he asked, keeping his voice light.

The idea seemed to be a step too far--Credence shook his head violently and screwed his eyes shut. Face now a flaming red, he gave an experimental rub against Graves’ shin and another stifled gasp. A second, much firmer, rub produced a stuttered moan and he buried his face in Graves’ chest. 

Graves kneaded his shoulders. “If that’s what you want, then don’t hold back.”

But the dam had already been broken. Credence rutted against Graves’ leg in abrupt little movements, giving noises of broken pleasure which were muffled by his waistcoat. Graves was entranced; Credence’s desire was as vigorous as he was shy. His face remained hidden the entire time. 

“Good boy, that's it,” Graves said, and that was enough to cause him to spill, near silent, with his spine rigid and limbs shaking.

Graves held him through it, until Credence stopped trembling and went boneless. And heavy; Graves shifted his leg a little, which now threatened to go to sleep.

Credence's stillness immediately took on a new quality--one much less relaxed.

“Hey,” Graves said, touching his hair in the hope of encouraging him to look up. “Come on, you were doing so well. Don't get coy on me now.”

He could feel Credence’s answering huff, even through his waistcoat. Slowly, Credence lifted his head. He looked dazed and only a little frightened. There was a flush across the bridge of his nose and some of his hair was sticking up at the back where Graves had ruffled it.

“It's not that I don't want you there,” Graves explained. “But I need to move my leg soon before it goes completely dead.”

He waved at where Credence still straddled him. All of his weight seemed to have fallen on a particularly important artery. 

Credence's eyes widened and he jerked himself up and away. “Your leg? I didn't hurt you, did I?”

The usual irritation that any mention of his leg brought didn't arrive. Instead, there was something touching about Credence worrying he’d hurt him--as if that could ever be possible. A tender feeling stirred in Graves’ chest and it was surprisingly good.

“No, sweetheart. No, you didn't.” Graves reached for him. “Come up here. We need to talk a while.”

*

Credence took Mr Graves’ hands and let himself be pulled up to sit by him. His thighs were wobbly and his underwear was soiled and sticky. But somehow Mr Graves managed to keep any shame at bay. Credence kept waiting for it to swarm his insides and make him recoil from the baseness of his actions. That it hadn't yet arrived must be another form of magic.

Mr Graves held Credence close to his side, an arm heavy around his waist. The easiest thing for Credence to do was slump against him and close his eyes. They were going to talk and he didn't know what to say. He'd said everything he was able to.

Then Mr Graves did something in the air with his fingers, spoke a word under his breath, and suddenly Credence was cool and fresh where before he'd been dirty and uncomfortable.

“I should teach you that,” he said. “Comes in useful.”

The open acknowledgment made Credence's face heat. Of course, Credence realised he _must_ know what he’d done--he'd _suggested it._ It was all too much to take in. He tried to burrow further into Mr Graves’ shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said, very quietly, and though he didn’t wish to completely disappear this time, being invisible would still have been welcome.

The arm around him loosened. Mr Graves twisted round, forcing Credence to raise his head. He knew it was very stubborn of him but he avoided Mr Graves’ eyes and focused resolutely on his tie pin instead.

“We're in a very complicated situation,” Mr Graves began.

Then he sighed and dropped his head back against the chair. Credence stared at his throat and watched his Adam’s apple move.

“My position makes this difficult, to say the least. You're an adult and I'm only responsible for the job I've been tasked with,” he said. “But, unfortunately, that job is you.”

Credence looked sharply up. “Me,” he repeated.

Of course--he was too broken, too dangerous, too strange. This could never be allowed. Hope might keep you alive but it didn’t do much more than that. Nothing ever came of it and if you believed its whispers things were always much worse for you in the end.

Mr Graves kissed his cheek, very carefully. It felt like regret; a goodbye. Credence screwed his eyes shut against the rushing and pounding in his chest. A choking sensation rose in his throat.

But to Credence's surprise, Mr Graves did not pull away. He pressed his cheek against Credence's own, warm and scratchy, and held him tight. A harsh sigh tickled his ear.

“Oh, but Credence,” he said. “I’m not the good man you think I am. I should let you down gently; explain all the other reasons this is a bad idea. Tell you I'm not your only chance and that there will be others.”

“You're not going to?” Credence asked, barely more than a whisper. He didn’t open his eyes. He was afraid if he did Mr Graves would disappear.

“No,” Mr Graves said. “The decision should be yours. I don't think I can make it, anyway.” He squeezed Credence tightly to him, then let go and rubbed at his forehead. “Things are not as clear to me as they used to be.”

“You think I should decide not to want you anymore?” Credence said, confused.

Mr Graves touched Credence’s face with such care Credence thought he might shatter under it. “Madam Picquery wants me to report back on what should happen to you--if anyone were to find out, what I tell her might not be listened to. Your future is at stake. That’s what you’ve got to think about now, not me.”

Credence nodded. He understood; they would call it bias, rather than something kinder and altogether more impossible.

“What do _you_ want?” he asked. “Do you want… me? The same way I want you?” He blushed, and kept his eyes down.

“I haven't stopped to think about what I want for a very long time,” said Mr Graves, then stopped. It was a while before he spoke again, with his voice was very quiet, almost sad. “I want you to be happy, Credence. If you're smiling, then at least I'm doing something right. That's all I know.”

“What about your job, though?” Credence worried at his lip. “You’d get in trouble. I wouldn’t want to cause you any.”

Mr Graves took his hands in his own. “Don't worry about me. Really. There's no point.”

Credence thought hard. “Do you believe in God, Mr Graves?” he said, after a pause.

Mr Graves looked a little startled. “Not many wizards are believers,” he said. “A few. Not me.”

Credence wondered if that explained something important about Mr Graves. For if you didn’t know what was right, God would help you. And though His voice still sometimes got muddled in his head with things Ma had told him, Credence knew they weren’t the same at all. He was coming to understand that they were, in fact, often very different.

“Because,” he said, “it seems to me that you're the Mr Graves I was always supposed to meet.” Now it was Credence’s turn to take Mr Graves’ hands in his. He held on, like they were praying together. “That's what I believe. Something went wrong, and I met someone I thought was you. But they really weren’t.” He took a deep breath and only dared to glance up when he’d finished. “I’ve got a chance to make that right. And I want to, Mr Graves, very much.”

Mr Graves gaped at him. “That's a lot of trust to put in me. And in God.”

“I know that,” Credence said, simply. “But that’s where I choose to put it.”

Mr Graves sat back and studied Credence very carefully. He took Credence's head between his hands and looked into his eyes, trying to read the truth there. Credence let him. Now he’d said what he needed to, he was curiously calm.

“I see,” Mr Graves said, at length. “And you're willing to risk your future, too?”

“But Mr Graves,” Credence replied. “Whatever my future is, it has to have you in it. Somehow.”

“I see,” Mr Graves said, again. He sounded quite dazed. He was frowning, the same expression he'd pulled at the teapot, like Credence was a puzzle even more complex than that.

With a surge of boldness, Credence reached for him. His hands sought Mr Graves’ shirtsleeves and found underneath muscles surprisingly firm and large. Out of nowhere, a picture of Mr Graves without his shirt appeared in Credence's head. With it came other, newer ideas; ones as interesting as they were shocking.

“Oh,” Credence said, with a sudden burst of realisation. “I-- We-- You didn't. But I did.” And immediately went beet red.

Mr Graves stared at him a moment more and then began to laugh. A real one; throaty, long, and loud. He pulled Credence back into his arms. 

“Maybe next time?” he said. “I think we've covered more than enough ground for one day.”

*

Credence’s apartment was all in darkness when Graves took him home. Night had fallen while they’d drunk their cold tea and shared a plate of eggs and bacon. Credence had claimed he wasn’t hungry but still had managed to put away four thick rashers, two fried eggs and three pieces of unevenly-sliced bread. Graves had been rather proud of himself. He might not be much of a cook but he could manage a good breakfast when the occasion called for it. Even if it was at completely the wrong time of day.

After they’d finished Graves had gently suggested he should take Credence home. He felt it was the best he could do, under the circumstances. It would give Credence space to think and the more Credence had of that, the more reassured Graves would be about everything which had happened. 

It would allow himself some time, too. Credence had given him at least as much to think about, if not more.

Credence had agreed and then fallen into a quiet thoughtfulness which was in danger of becoming appallingly endearing. Graves had watched him closely, for any sign of regret or discomfort. But all he’d perceived was a lightness he’d not really witnessed before--something soft and vulnerable and strong all at once. It made parts him ache which had not ached for years. 

Once inside his apartment though, more of Credence’s shyness returned. He paused uncertainly in the kitchen and looked at the floor when he asked Graves to stay a while.

“Not for _that_ ,” he’d corrected himself, hastily. “Just… If it’s not too much trouble. Maybe you could sit with me before I go to sleep?”

It turned out he meant this quite literally. He shuffled into the bathroom to change while Graves had a very thorough look around his apartment. Though it was cramped and the furnishings sparse, things he’d noted before, there were signs of small comforts which heartened him. A blanket on the couch, where it appeared Credence did much of his reading. Some of the textbooks Graves had given him were piled on the floor, and among them a Bible. His cupboards were perhaps more bare than Graves would have liked, but there was, at least, a handful of cookies, hidden away in a jar at the back. 

The bathroom door opened and Credence appeared in a nightshirt which was at once too big and too small. It hung open around his neck, exposing an expanse of pale skin and slim collarbones, but was far too short. Graves tried hard not to stare at his knees, or, Merlin forbid, at the tender skin above them.

The manner in which Credence slipped into bed and pulled the covers right up to his chin suggested he’d just become conscious of nightshirt’s shortcomings too.

Graves sat on the edge of the bed. “Did you want to talk?”

Credence looked a little lost. “I don’t know. We can.”

The lights were still on. In his haste Credence had forgotten to turn them down, so Graves did so with a wave of his hand. The hush in the room increased with the thickening dark; it was soft and cosy, like a woollen blanket had been laid over them. 

“Is this a dream?” Credence said, in a whisper. His eyes were huge and dark. “It seems like it must be.”

Graves threaded his fingers with Credence’s, lifted his hand and kissed it. “Not a dream,” he said. “It’ll be waiting for you tomorrow, when you wake up.”

“Where will you be?” Credence asked. “Will you be waiting too?”

“I will be thinking of you,” Graves said. He touched Credence’s cheek as he rose to go. “Sleep well, sweetheart. Take care of yourself and I will see you soon.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much for your kind words *beams*

The tapping at the window had grown sharp and quite annoyed before Credence noticed it. He was readying himself for the first lesson of the week with Mr Graves and was perhaps a tad more distracted than usual. But, in his defence, it was still very unusual to find a pigeon trying to gain entry through the window. 

A loud cooing could be heard, even through the pane. Credence opened it and the pigeon hopped imperiously inside then stuck out its leg. Tied to it was a scrap of rolled-up paper. As soon as Credence removed it, the pigeon flew over to his breakfast plate and began pecking up toast crumbs. Credence stared in amazement. The pigeon ignored him completely and, when it was finished, gave one last derisory coo and vanished back out of the window.

Credence unrolled the note. It was from Mr Graves and said:

__

> _Credence,_
> 
> _Come an hour later this morning. I have an urgent matter to attend to first but should be with you by ten o’clock. If I am not, wait for me._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _G_

After that, there was a flourish which could have been an ‘x’ or could just have been an inkblot.

Credence studied it for a while, trying to decide which was most likely. On the whole, it was probably the inkblot. The handwriting, even when hurried, was firm and elegant. It brought to life again the memory of Mr Graves standing by his bed, bidding him good night. Touching his cheek and kissing his hand.

It had been real and not a dream. He’d had a whole day to think about it and to wonder what might happen next.

For the first time in Credence’s life, anything seemed possible.

*

Graves had sat up most of Saturday night with a bottle of Firewhisky, trying to make sense of the last few hours. It hadn’t helped much. His regrets, when he interrogated them, were surprisingly few. But his conscience still pricked at him: how was he, someone who’d never excelled at this sort of thing, supposed to give Credence what he needed?

Especially now, when he was at his most unsound.

His career was possibly destroyed. He couldn’t so much as step through the door of his old apartment building and avoided the street whenever feasible--and he’d never yet found an occasion when it wasn’t. He couldn’t bear to lie down in the dark with the doors closed. Couldn’t stand the sound of a ticking clock. And, most importantly, couldn’t remember _why_ any of these things were. He knew the basics--where he’d been found and by whom. He knew how long he’d been gone. The rest was left to his imagination, which helpfully tried to plug in the gaps at the worst possible moments.

Sometimes he had dreams, awful dreams, which wrenched him out of sleep, sweating and shaking, and in them was just-- Nothing. A screaming silent void. It lived inside him; Grindelwald’s secret legacy. He’d been left hollowed out, emptied of anything worthwhile. Though he couldn’t remember clearly enough, Graves was sure that, before, there’d been _something_ good in him. There must have been, but it seemed so long ago.

Credence needed someone strong he could rely on. He didn’t know about any of Graves’ weaknesses, his myriad nightmares. He didn’t even know he was no longer Director.

Just then a painful twinge of his leg had chosen to remind him that he was, quite literally, crippled. 

So, all things considered, he thought he’d actually drunk very little Firewhisky. More might even have been a good idea. It might have blotted out Sunday, which he’d spent being tired and irritable and irrationally angry. With himself, for being so stupidly weak; with Grindelwald, for choosing his life to steal in the first place; and with Seraphina, for getting him into this mess with Credence--one that he now didn’t want to get out of.

_Seraphina._ There he had paused.

Everything converged on the Project and failure wasn’t an option. He had to prove Credence could control his magic and that he was not a security risk. But would it be enough to guarantee Credence the kind of life he deserved? Interest in him was laden with suspicion; he’d been tainted by association with Grindelwald, even more than Graves had.

They needed to go above and beyond; show Credence was a wizard like any other. He needed that wand. Percy had to get it for him--it was something practical he could do, something to _help_.

And if he could wrap the Project up sooner rather than later, any further mess he got into would be on his own time and his own head, and wouldn’t threaten Credence’s future. It would be no one’s business what went on between them.

That had decided it--first thing on Monday he would speak to Seraphina. In person. Once she’d understood what Credence was capable of--and, more importantly, _not_ capable of--she wouldn’t be able to refuse.

*

The alley he used for Apparition was deserted when Graves whirled into it. He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and set off for MACUSA’s front doors.

Everyone noticed when he strode inside. They always did; that was the point of it all. The coat, the suit, the hair. The attitude. Except now they tended to look warily interested, instead of taking pains to seem hard at work like they used to. A couple even whispered to each other behind their hands as he passed by.

He made sure none of it showed. Each step he took was measured and strong, his cane tapping smartly as he made his way through the hall and down the stairs. His leg hurt like hell but he’d rather die than take the elevator. He took the route to his old office, and to Seraphina’s next door. Precisely as if nothing had changed.

“Mr Graves!” Seraphina’s secretary exclaimed at him. “I had no idea you were coming in today. Are you here to see Madam President?”

“Miss Lopez,” he said. “You’re looking well. Yes, I am, is she in yet?”

Miss Lopez threw a nervous glance at Seraphina’s door. It was closed. “Yes, Mr Graves, but I’m afraid she’s busy. In a meeting but they should be finished by half past. I’ll fetch you some coffee while you wait?”

Graves nodded and she hurried away. Half an hour, he could manage that. It wasn’t too unbecoming to have to wait thirty minutes to speak to the President. Even if he had known her since childhood and she was the closest thing he had to a friend.

The problem was where to do his waiting. Seraphina didn’t encourage casual drop-ins so there were no seats, only Miss Lopez’s desk set out like a guard post. And he was damned if he was going to linger near his own office. The door of that was similarly closed--Leach was probably in there already, sitting in his chair like a fat, comfortable toad. He tried not to grimace at the thought.

Leach’s new secretary was outside, ostensibly typing away at some report or other. But Graves felt her scrutiny underneath it. His conviction that secretaries made excellent spies came back to haunt him.

He decided the most dignified thing to do was to study the noticeboard near Miss Lopez’s desk-- _the threat level was still at severe, there was a reminder not to leave dirty coffee cups on desks overnight--_ and when she returned to make pleasant chit-chat. 

All went well until Seraphina’s door opened and out stepped Cromwell Leach. Graves was deep in the midst of his most charming persona--weighing the merits of herbology studies for Miss Lopez’s nephew and agreeing that ‘yes, it was a _greatly_ undervalued subject’ and that ‘it had _many_ benefits to bring to American wizardry’--and so lost the advantage of speaking first. 

“Ah, Graves,” said Leach. “Good to see you up and about.”

In rapid succession, Graves suppressed both a sneer and an indignant bristle at the implication he spent his time moping about in a convalescent haze.

“Leach,” he said, greeting him with a self-possessed nod. “Meeting Seraphina so early on a Monday morning? I do hope everything in the Department is running smoothly. She never used to keep such a watchful eye on its day-to-day affairs.”

Too late, he realised he’d made a particularly stupid blunder. He used to have a much better handle on things like this. There was, of course, a very good reason Seraphina would now keep a watchful eye on the Department, and the fault was all his.

Surprisingly, Leach didn’t go for the jugular. Instead he gave Graves a funny look and said, “Times change, you know. World’s a different place and all that.”

There wasn’t much Graves could do except agree with him. Doing so caused no small amount of pain. 

“How’s your young charge doing?” Leach said. “I hear he’s likely to turn out _not_ to be a homicidal maniac after all. Makes things simpler for everyone. Especially him.”

Graves paused, and tried not to show his surprise. “He’s doing well. Probably make a fine wizard, actually.”

“Oh really? Well, that is very good news,” Leach said. “Very good news indeed. We were just saying how we need a positive outcome from the Project. To go beyond simply neutralising a threat--turning it to our advantage, that sort of thing. Sounds very promising. Well, keep up the good work.” 

And with that he shuffled off into Graves’ office, presumably to prop his gouty feet up on the desk. Graves had to set his jaw against barging in and telling him to move them.

“Mr Graves?” Miss Lopez said, from somewhere near his left shoulder. “Madam will see you now.”

“Yes, of course, thank you,” he said, and barged into Seraphina’s office instead.

Seraphina raised an eyebrow at him. She was at her desk, looking predictably regal. “I hope you haven’t been haranguing Leach in front of the staff.”

“I haven’t harangued anyone for a long time. I’m overdue.” Graves sat without waiting for an invitation. “Your office smells like doughnut grease, by the way. Must be the company you’re keeping.”

Seraphina sighed audibly and tapped the large ornamental seashell on the desk with her wand. She leaned over and spoke into it, with a long-suffering glance at Graves. “Miss Lopez, please fetch more coffee. Mr Graves clearly hasn’t met his quota yet this morning.”

“Why was Leach asking about Credence?” Graves said. “I wasn’t aware he’d been informed of the details.”

“I was going to ask ‘to what do I owe the pleasure?’” Seraphina said. “But it seems I have my answer. He’s the Acting Director of Magical Security, Percy, of course he knows.”

There was a small interruption, filled by rattling china and an ostentatious silence, while coffee was brought in. Seraphina seemed as grateful as Graves for a cup. How absolutely typical of her to cover her own weakness by pointing out one of his--the familiarity of it caused Graves a pang. He missed this, sitting in her office, jousting over policy and politics. It had seemed like they’d run the world. But neither of them were under that illusion any more.

“Credence needs a wand,” Graves said. “I’m not leaving until you agree.”

“That’s quite a statement to make,” she said. “Remember that time you threatened to sit on my broom until I admitted that your _Draconifors_ was better and you gave up after three hours?”

“I was twelve,” Graves said. “And I decided it wasn’t that important. Look, just hear me out.”

“And this is that important?” She sat back in her chair and levelled him with a thoughtful look. “Well, go ahead then. I’m listening.”

*

Graves was fifteen minutes late to meet Credence. He was sitting cross-legged on a bench, trying to make a piece of paper fold itself up into an approximation of a lotus blossom. It was something Graves had shown him a couple of days ago--the delicacy of touch needed would help refine his abilities and, by all appearances, it was working.

Graves studied his bent head, his concentrated frown. He made the perfect picture of a good student--one patient, serious, and determined. And Graves had failed him. Seraphina had agreed to think his request over again, but no more than that. Once again, he was to ‘continue with the Project as directed’.

It didn’t seem possible it was only a quarter past ten. He was as weary as if he’d gone several rounds with a mountain troll. And the feeling didn’t improve much once Credence noticed his arrival. His smile was shy and hopeful and utterly beautiful in its hesitancy. Graves felt down to his very bones how little he deserved such a gift.

“Morning, Credence,” he said, and smiled back. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

He’d agreed privately with himself to keep their session professional. No need to make the situation any more tangled than it already was. Credence didn’t seem to mind or perhaps even notice--he set about the more energetic task of making a suitcase dance across the floor with every sign of contentment.

Graves watched from a distance and grew increasingly maudlin. His mind kept pulling him back to Toby Jenkins and that one freckle along the smooth jut of his hip. Credence had the same slender frame as Toby. But, of course, Graves had been considerably more slender himself back then. 

What an ass he’d been after that summer. He hadn’t even written. Too busy pretending he’d never looked back, when the truth was he’d never looked forward. What had lain in their future seemed too complicated, too inconvenient. Too much of a risk.

During the past twenty-four hours, Graves had spent quite some time trying to convince himself it would be better for Credence if he did the same. Just got on with his job and then afterwards did his best to disappear from Credence’s life. But he knew it was the coward’s way out--truth be told, he always had done. With Toby he’d the excuse of youth, but everything was different with Credence. He’d never be able to forgive himself if he hurt him. 

And so, when one o’clock rolled around, he did what he’d been dreading. He told Credence the truth.

*

“I’m not what you think I am, Credence.”

Graves’ pacing was restless and pain-filled. His leg didn’t like it but he couldn’t seem to make himself stop. Credence watched solemn-eyed from the armchair Graves had made him sit in.

“I’m not-- I haven’t--” Graves stopped and tried to gather his thoughts properly. “I haven’t been well, Credence. Since Grindelwald. And maybe before then, I don’t know.”

The silence coming from the chair behind him could only be described as profound.

“The truth is I can’t rescue you, can’t save you. I’m not even the Director any more, someone else is running the Department--”

“They fired you?” Credence interrupted. 

Graves spun round. Credence wore an expression of earnest indignation which, under other circumstances, might have been said to be heartwarmingly comical.

“No, not exactly,” Graves said. “Indefinite medical leave.”

“Oh,” said Credence. “Okay.” And then, “Are you hurt? I wanted to ask before but I didn’t think you would like it.”

Graves crossed the space between them and crouched by Credence’s chair, leaning his weight on his good side. “No, I’m mostly fine. Really.”

Credence’s expression cleared a little, and Graves remembered what he was supposed to saying.

“Did you hear me, Credence? I’m not the man you want. I don’t think he ever existed. Even before Grindelwald, even if I’d been the one who met you first, I still wouldn’t have saved you.”

Credence blinked a few times in rapid succession. “I know that _now_ ,” he said. “Of course I do. Why would you have saved me? You didn’t know anything about me--I was nothing to you.”

Graves thoughts evaporated. A buzzing static filled his head. “But--” 

“So many people did the same, Mr Graves. All of them, in fact, except for Tina. And Newt, later. Do you think they were all bad people? I don’t.”

Graves became aware he was gripping Credence’s arm. He loosened his hold, thinking that might be the saddest and bravest thing he’d ever heard.

“I went to church yesterday,” Credence said. “A woman on the street gave me a leaflet--I always take them, no matter what they’re for. This one was for the Society of Friends. I read up about them at the library and decided to go. Do you know them?” 

Graves shook his head.

“There wasn't a priest--everyone sat in silent prayer. Partway through a woman stood up. She said we all have a greater capacity for good than we know, greater even than our ability to carry it out, and that that’s our burden. That we have to make choices.” He stopped, and found Graves’ hand with his own. “Your choice was about something bigger than just me--you wanted to keep everyone safe, all the time.”

Graves had no idea how to respond. He was beginning to notice that, when Credence had something to say, it was worth being patient for.

But when he did speak, he found the only words he had left were the ones he’d tried to hide, even from himself. “I wish I could’ve,” he said. “I wish I could go back, to find you before he did. I would keep you safe. Now.”

Credence shook his head. “For a long time, I wished for the same. A saviour.” His smile grew self-deprecating and he met Graves’ eyes. “For someone to wave a magic wand. It didn’t do me a lot of good, in the end.”

Despite everything, Graves smiled back. Something in his heart had lifted. He was half-knelt between Credence’s legs; Credence was very close and very warm. Graves gathered him up in his arms, as best as he could.

Credence touched his face, slowly, like he was unsure if was allowed to. Graves leaned into it.

“Help came, Mr Graves,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about me. It arrived and it’s still here.”

Graves shut his eyes. The words which rose in him were ones he could not take back, once uttered. But he wanted to say them--it seemed important to say them.

“Will you let me take care of you, as much as I can?” he said. “It might not always be enough. But I'll try, sweetheart. For you I can try.”

He pulled Credence to him before he could answer; pressed his mouth to his own, slid shaking fingers through his hair, over his skin. Credence’s hands clutched at him like he was drowning. When he drew back, Credence just nodded in a stunned sort of way. He didn’t let go of Graves’ shirt.

Graves rested his forehead against Credence’s and took a breath. “I tried to get you a wand this morning,” he said. “You’re ready for it. But I need Seraphina to agree.”

Credence was quiet while he thought this over. “What happens if I get one?” he said.

“ _When_ you get one,” Graves corrected. “With it you can prove once and for all you belong with us. You’ll start your education proper. It’s a bit like becoming a citizen.”

“But, can I, though?” Credence chewed his lip. “The ones I tried before, they-- They didn’t like me.”

“There’s a wand for everybody,” Graves said, very firmly. “You’re unusual, that’s all.”

Credence lowered his eyes to the corner of Graves’ jaw. “Will I still see you every day?”

Graves’ mouth curved. Suddenly he felt much more comfortable, more like his old self. He slipped his hands down to Credence’s hips and yanked him forward, slotting them closely together.

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said, letting his words tease at Credence’s lips. “Will you still want to see me every day? You might have some new friends by then.”

A whimper shook out of Credence and he wrapped his legs tight around Graves’ hips. In answer, Graves kissed along his jaw. Credence dug his fingers into Graves’ shoulders and tilted his head so Graves could kiss his neck too.

“Is that a yes?” Graves smiled. He crowded forwards, making Credence lean back into the chair, legs splayed. It nestled the growing bulge in his pants against Credence’s.

Credence nodded and reached blindly out for him. Graves chuckled into his searching kiss. He slid his palm from Credence’s hip to settle over his hardness. Credence gasped, and bucked up into his hand.

“Is this okay?” Graves squeezed a little, fingers working him gently through his pants. “Credence, I need to hear you say it.”

Credence took a huge gulping breath in but no words followed. What happened instead was far more unexpected. Without being touched, both Graves’ pants and underwear burst open, exposing him completely. A button pinged off the opposite wall and circled slowly, loudly, to a standstill.

Credence covered his face, bright red to the roots of his hair. “‘M’sorry,” he said, slightly muffled behind his hands. “Your pants. I didn’t mean--”

Graves had to force his laughter down--it was unlikely Credence would appreciate it. He tried to prise Credence’s fingers away from his face and, when that didn’t work, resorted to kissing them instead.

“No need to apologise,” he said. “In fact, I’m extremely flattered.”

Slowly, Credence allowed Graves to draw one of his hands away and pull it down between them. He didn’t resist but he didn’t do much more than that, either. Graves pressed his fingers just to the side of his thickening cock, where Credence would feel the torn fabric but nothing more.

“Take what you need, remember?” Graves said, thumbing softly along Credence’s cheek. “Or, if you want something different, just say.”

Credence dropped his other hand from his face, eyes wide and wanting. He sat up a little and glanced down to where Graves had gently captured his hand. His mouth fell slowly open and for a few excruciating moments neither of them moved. Then a series of ragged breaths took hold of him, growing more powerful, until Graves felt a very uncertain touch along his shaft. His cock twitched--he could’ve cursed it for choosing that exact moment to react quite so strongly.

But Credence said, “ _Oh_ ,” in a very quiet and thoughtful voice, and wrapped his fingers boldly around him.

Graves really did curse, then, loudly and with considerable vigour. When he next looked at Credence, he was bright-eyed and the furious blush had receded to his cheeks. Graves pushed into his hand, and Credence responded by tightening his grip. His cock slid beautifully through the tight tunnel of Credence’s fingers--Credence’s eyes remained fixed to the sight, and Graves’ to Credence’s open-mouthed stare.

“Okay?” Graves asked again.

Credence nodded. “I just-- I’ll be okay, it’s just--” He dragged his eyes back up Graves’ face and said in a rush, “I don’t know what I want to do first. I don’t really know what I _can_ do.”

Graves kissed the corner of his mouth. “We’ve got all the time in the world. Let me take care of you?”

Credence gaze was unfocused and full of desire. He made a little yearning sound of assent and, when Graves palmed him again, groaned in pleasure.

Graves hovered over the fastenings of his pants. “Can I?”

“Yes,” Credence said, breathless. “Yes, please.”

He wriggled obligingly until Graves freed him. His cock was something lovely, Graves thought, flushed and pink and innocent with its simple needs. It didn’t know shame, and Graves was going to do his level best to make sure Credence knew none either.

When Graves stroked him gently, Credence shuddered, eyes squeezed shut. Graves leaned over him, nuzzled at his jaw, and lined them both up in his hand. Credence’s eyes flew open at the first drag of Graves’ cock along his own and gasped aloud when Graves worked a little lubrication charm. Graves pressed his smile into Credence’s neck, kissed and licked and nibbled at the soft skin there, thrusting long and lazy against him.

Credence couldn’t seem to decide between his need to watch or his need to lay back and submit to sensation. He kept twisting to look between them, at the constant slide of slippery skin over skin, at the blunt rub of their plush rosy flesh. In the end, Graves took his hand, placed it with his own, to guide them closer together. His mouth was open, panting; his eyes flicking every so often to Graves’. Graves kissed him; a hand gentle in his hair and groaning against his softly-swollen lips. Gradually, Credence’s answering noises became louder, more self-assured, more demanding.

It took Graves very little time to reach his brink and he suspected it would not take much for Credence to follow. He thrust faster, and Credence bucked up against him, his cries taking on a desperate edge.

“Yes, that’s it, good boy,” Grave said, into the sweetness of his mouth. “Spill for me.” 

The fingers of Credence’s free hand dug hard into Graves’ bicep. “Oh! Mr Graves…” he managed, and Graves felt him spatter thickly over them both.

“Yes, good boy,” said Graves again. A pleasant possessive idea arose, about marking Credence as his own; of coming over him where he lay, all spent and sticky and happy; of Credence welcoming it with a lazy smile. It was enough: he groaned, shuddered, and gasped as their fluids mingled on their joined hands.

They were both panting hard. Graves noticed his knees hurt though, strangely, his leg was fine.

He sat back on his knees and rested his head on Credence’s chest. “Merlin’s beard, Credence,” he said. “If you’re going to wear me out like that, you’re going to have to come up with something else to call me.”

He felt Credence shift underneath him, and looked up. Credence was half-smiling, half-frowning, but he looked happy.

“‘ _Just Graves’_?” he said. His nose wrinkled in something close to distaste.

“I have a first name, you know,” Graves said. “You could use that. It’s Percival.”

Credence’s brows pulled together in a serious expression. “Percival,” he said, drawing out each syllable. Even Graves had to agree. It sounded all wrong--even more formal than ‘Mr Graves’ did.

Graves snorted. “There’s always Percy, I suppose,” he said. “Though hardly anyone calls me that. I don’t like it much but--”

Credence wasn’t listening; he wore a huge smile, one which went ear-to-ear. With a sinking feeling that this was going to become a pattern, Graves knew what was coming next and how readily he was going to agree to it.

“I like that better,” Credence said. “ _Percy._ Would you-- Would you kiss me again, Percy?”

And as easy as that, Graves found he liked it better, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credence’s ejaculation - in both senses - is part inspired by and part homage to Pangaea’s *amazing* art which you can see and find out more about [here.](http://pangaeastarseed.tumblr.com/post/162009882636/oh-mr-graves-is-now-for-sale-my-etsy-this)


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning, Credence woke to a familiar sensation--that of being in a bed which was not his own. Since he’d moved into his little apartment, every morning had brought a moment of disorientation--the pillows were too many; the mattress too soft; the hour too late. Then he would open his eyes and look around, remembering again that everything was different--it had been for some time and would continue that way forever.

This particular morning, however, things were even more different than usual. There was a foreign weight behind him, making the mattress dip so Credence rolled back into it, warm and snug. And an arm, clamped tight around his middle, which when Credence sneaked a look down, he saw was liberally sprinkled with dark hairs. The light was muted, too; the brightness of early summer kept at bay by drapes thicker and far more luxurious than any he was used to.

Instinctively, Credence knew that outside, the day was a beautiful one. The kind of day where everyone smiled and was happy, where ice-laden carts sold ice cream cones to children and sweethearts walked hand-in-hand down tree-lined streets. Exactly the kind of day he’d never been part of. Until now.

With some difficulty, Credence turned onto his back. The arm around him allowed it only grudgingly and settled firmly back in place again once he’d stilled. Credence smiled to himself and looked at its owner, the man who was now Percy. His expression while asleep was faintly stern, like something in his dreams had offended him and he was waiting for the appropriate moment to say so. Once, it might’ve made Credence nervous but he had grown used to his manner. His Mr Graves could switch from a frown to a smile and back again over the course of only a few moments, and infuse it all with surprising amounts of care and gentleness. Now the sight warmed Credence through from the inside. 

_This bed and everything in it could easily be a dream,_ he thought. Except that he distinctly remembered its beginnings somewhere around yesterday afternoon, and there was no kind of dream he knew of which began before falling asleep.

He remembered, with a hot blush, being left sprawled and panting with Percy’s head heavy on his chest. He remembered the many kisses and sweet words which had followed, remembered Percy never letting go of him for more than a few moments at a time. They had finally settled down quietly together, until Percy had realised dinnertime was long past and had fetched something to eat from a restaurant around the corner. Later still, he had asked Credence to stay with him, in a tone which suggested Credence had something valuable to give and Percy wasn’t sure it was his to ask for. He’d lent Credence a pair of his pyjamas, and had held him tightly until sleep took them both. 

Credence had accepted all this in something approaching a daze. As unlikely as it all seemed, what else could he do? Should there be anything to worry over, he’d decided to do it later and instead enjoy what must surely be his happiest day on earth yet.

*

A short time later, Percy woke up. From deep within his pillow came a rumbling, groaning kind of noise. Then the arm across Credence’s stomach wound tighter and was joined by the other, which wriggled underneath him, until Credence was half-pulled flush against his side. A leg was thrown over his own and Percy’s head ended up on his chest. He was heavy and altogether too hot for such a bright morning and so many blankets. But it was wonderful, so wonderful that Credence’s arms had wrapped tightly around him before he even thought about it.

“You awake, sweetheart?” Percy moved, squinting up at him. “Thought you were still asleep.”

Credence shook his head. His smile was so wide it hurt his cheeks, his jaw, his heart.

Percy watched him and nodded to himself. “Been awake for a while, I see. Give me a few moments, I’ll be up in a minute.”

His head came to rest once more on Credence’s chest. The planes of his back and shoulders shifted under Credence’s fingers, his skin warm through his undershirt. Credence studied the greying bristles around his ears. There were bristles on his jaw too, both dark and light. Credence wanted to touch them but didn't quite dare.

“I could make you coffee?” he said. “As I’m awake and you’re not.” Even as he heard himself speak, it sounded silly. Percy would make himself coffee, if he wanted--it was his apartment. He could probably do it with a snap of his fingers. “I know how,” he finished, rather lamely.

Percy peered up at him again. “You could, yes,” he said. “But then you’d no longer be here, in bed with me, and that would be a real shame.”

“I could get back in after,” Credence said. “Couldn’t I?”

Percy levered himself up on his elbows. He kissed Credence softly, stubble rasping his cheek in a way which made Credence want to press into it. “Of course, sweetheart,” he said. “But you don’t have to make me coffee. You don't have to do anything at all. You know that, right?”

Freshly warmed-through with kisses, Credence could very much see the value in staying exactly where he was. But the idea tugged at him. It was a small but special thing to take care of someone just because you wanted to, especially someone like Percy.

“I’d like to,” Credence said. “I’ll come back. Then we can both stay here a bit longer?”

So Credence did. Percy released him with a final kiss and Credence had the strange experience of making coffee in Percy’s kitchen in Percy's pyjamas. It took him a little time, as he had to use the stove the No-Maj way, but soon he was at the bedroom door holding one perfect cup of hot black coffee. 

The sight of Percy sat up in bed, waiting, made him falter. He was altogether too handsome, too good for Credence, with his dark hair falling loose from its pomade and bright white undershirt tight across his chest. It was if Credence had been under a spell, now broken, and reality had come rushing back in. Something hateful whispered at him, from the back of his mind, that maybe that was exactly what had happened--all of it an evil trick and Credence had fallen for it yet again.

“Credence?” Percy drew the covers aside, patted the space next to him. “Come on, come here.”

Credence went to his side automatically--he didn’t know what else to do. Percy took the cup from his hand, tasted it, then set it on the nightstand.

“You’re getting good at making that,” he said. “Now, how about you get back in bed and tell me what’s wrong?”

Credence wanted to run away; hide. Instead he did as he was told. Percy’s arm slid around him and Credence buried his face into his shoulder. He felt solid, as warm and safe as the space under the blankets.

Percy didn’t push him to answer, just kept one arm tight around him and slowly drank his coffee with the other. By degrees, Credence began to relax again.

“I got scared,” Credence said, without opening his eyes. “That this wasn’t real.”

Credence could tell from the cant of Percy’s head that he was thinking. Eventually he said, “It’s a lot to take in. I’ve had trouble with it myself.”

“Like yesterday,” Credence said. “When you said you weren’t what I thought.” He cracked open an eye.

Percy nodded. “Yes, like yesterday.” He set his cup down with a clang of finality, and wrapped both arms around Credence. “When I said I wanted to take of you, I meant it. I do mean it. That’s real. But real can be scary.”

“So…” Credence sat up a little. His hand had somehow drifted up to fasten in the V of Percy’s undershirt. “You’re scared too?”

Percy frowned down at his lap. “I guess you could say so. The things you make me want; I didn’t expect them. I didn’t expect any of this.”

“Is it bad to want them?” An inevitable dread crept up on Credence. He was practiced at keeping his thoughts and feelings in a bubble, separate from others and even from himself--but it felt as though it was about to burst. And with it would come his Ma’s voice, thick with accusations and disgust.

“No, no, it’s not like that,” Percy said. “ _Those_ kinds of things are not unexpected at all. I’ve always wanted those things. I've done plenty of them. But you--” He took Credence’s face in his hands. “You are something different. I did not see you coming, sweet boy.”

It took Credence a short moment to fully understand what ‘I’ve done plenty of them’ meant. His mind helpfully provided images of Percy kissing other men, _touching_ other men, of nakedness and its accompanying sounds… So much so that he almost missed the words which had followed. And the look in Percy's eyes, which was both soft and burning. 

“It's a good kind of scared,” said Percy, after he had gazed so long at Credence he began to feel quite helpless. “The things you make me want are… good things.”

“Like what?” It was greedy to ask, Credence knew, but its answer felt so very important. 

Percy’s expression was quiet and serious while he stroked Credence’s hair. It caused a golden sensation to spread through Credence’s chest, and then onwards, down his spine and into his limbs. Like his veins carried honey instead of blood. Maybe it was Percy’s magic, thought Credence. Maybe he could work more miracles than he’d realised.

“Things like this,” Percy said, after a moment. “You bringing me coffee in bed, dressed in my pyjamas. How you look at me--as if I’m both the answer to your prayers and the greatest mystery your God will ever put in front of you. And, having you close, just here.” He laid a hand briefly on his chest. “If you ever worry this isn't real again, remember this is where you belong. Right here.”

Credence looked at the spot. “Next to your heart,” he said, and touched his fingers there.

Percy's face did something complicated that Credence couldn’t read. He wet his lips, swallowed. “Yes, sweetheart. Next to my heart.”

Credence nodded and leaned in, to press his cheek there. Underneath, he heard Percy's heart beat strong and loud. He sighed and felt a peace steal over him.

*

With Credence nestled so close-- _next to his heart,_ Percy thought helplessly--he might either shatter into pieces or do something stupid, like attempt to Apparate to Germany and challenge Grindelwald to another duel. Luckily, Credence still had magic practice, so that was reason enough not to do either.

As soon as Credence was reminded of this, he disentangled himself from Percy and the bedclothes, and blinked around at the room like he wasn’t sure where he was. His hair was out of place and Percy’s pyjamas gaped open at his neck. The urge to duel Grindelwald grew louder. Percy brushed his hair off his forehead, kissed it, then steered him towards the bathroom.

He took absolutely no notice when Credence’s shyness began to creep back upon him--if he didn’t, then after a while, Credence seemed to forget about it too. He left him there with instructions to take his time getting ready, then put on a dressing gown and went to make breakfast.

Credence appeared a very short time later, fully dressed, and with his hair combed back to its usual neatness. Percy found himself thinking about a trip to the barbers but schooled himself out of it. He would let Credence decide when the time was right for that. Eventually, Credence would realise exactly how many choices he had, and then who knew where Percy would be.

The table was set, a little more elaborately than when Percy dined alone. He poured Credence some tea--it had gone better this time--and piled his plate with toast, eggs, and bacon. Credence took the chair next to Percy without being asked and Percy brushed his thumb along the curve of his jaw. The hollow just behind it was touchingly vulnerable, pale and soft and unblemished.

“Now I feel quite underdressed,” Percy said, leaning in a little.

Credence picked up his knife and fork, a quick flicker of a smile passing across his face; it was one Percy was beginning to recognise. He let his eyes travel over Percy for a moment, over his unshaven face and loosely-belted dressing gown.

“I like how you look,” Credence said simply, before he started to eat.

It was such a small admission but it left Percy feeling like he’d conquered a mountain. He leaned back in his chair, watching Credence’s methodical use of the knife and fork. His grin went unseen by Credence, who kept his attention firmly and soberly on his plate. Percy wondered what it would be like to watch him indulge in some harmless gluttony--the idea had much to recommend it.

After a few moments of silent eating, Credence put aside his knife and fork. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything at all,” Percy said. “Go ahead.”

“Before, you mentioned wanting _those_ kinds of things. And, um, _doing_ them.” He twisted his fingers together until his knuckles went white, but otherwise kept himself still. “Didn’t-- Doesn’t anyone _mind?_ Say you shouldn’t? Tell you it’s wrong?”

Percy had been waiting for this: a chance to do battle with the ghost of Mary Lou Barebone. Probably the first of many but he was up for the challenge. 

“It’s not the same here as it is in the No-Maj world,” he said, as gently as he could. “Men like you and I are different, yes. But not that different. No one really cares what we do. Except for my mother.”

That caught Credence’s attention, as was intended. “Your mother?”

“She wanted an heir, someone to carry on the Graves name,” Percy said. “But I've got plenty of cousins and they're all quite happy making little Graveses. So I don't see why it matters if I refrain.” He grasped Credence’s hands. “That was the only reason she minded. She didn’t think it was wrong, just… inconvenient. For her.”

Credence stared at him, fascinated. “What is she like? What are they all like?”

“My mother was a very proud woman. Strong but thought mostly of herself. My cousins…” Percy stopped. “Well, the less said the better, really.” He gave Credence a smile, one he knew was both wicked and charming. “Maybe you'll meet them one day and can make up your own mind. I wouldn't want to prejudice you.”

Immediately, Percy regretted saying it. Not because it wasn’t perhaps true and that Credence one day might meet what scraps of family he had left, but because he’d fallen back into old habits. Credence deserved better than empty flirtation, even if it did pass over his head like the hot air it was. 

He was about to add something else, something more genuine, addressed to the sweet boy who, against all sound advice, trusted him with so much. But he was rudely interrupted by that damned pigeon, which swooped in through the open window and clattered onto the table, upsetting the milk jug.

Percy swore viciously under his breath and vanished the milk with an irritated wave. It was already soaking into the tablecloth. He accio-ed first his wand, then the message, and read it while drying out the tablecloth.

“That’s that pigeon,” Credence said, watching it strut self-importantly about the table. “The impatient one.”

“Yes, he is, very ill-mannered indeed.” Percy glared at it. “I had hoped you would be better behaved around Credence.”

“Is he yours?” Credence asked, peering closer, and looking suspiciously like he might be considering feeding it.

“In a manner of speaking,” Percy said. “Don’t even think about giving him toast--he gets perfectly good pellets twice a day.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Bertie,” Percy said. “I had a great-uncle Bertram with a bad attitude and rheumy eyes. Now listen here, Bertie. This is Credence. I want you to treat him like royalty, do you understand?” 

Bertie didn’t exactly ignore him but if a pigeon could’ve rolled its eyes he would have done. When Percy stopped scowling at it, he noticed Credence had a hand clamped over his mouth. Every so often his shoulders gave an involuntary twitch.

“Are you actually laughing at me?” Percy asked, half-astonished and half-delighted. “If you look in the cupboard behind you, you’ll find a jar of pellets. Why don’t you feed him--maybe he’ll listen to you more than he does me.”

Credence, still grinning, found the jar and let Bertie peck them out of his palm. Percy eyed the pigeon with mistrust but Credence seemed happy enough. He even scratched Bertie’s neck, who cooed in a disgustingly transparent manner.

“We’re going for lunch today,” Percy said, waving the note. “And while we’re there, we’re going to accidentally bump into Goldstein.”

“Goldstein?” Credence looked up, frowning. “Tina?”

“Yes, Tina. She’s worried you might think she’s forgotten you. She hasn’t. It’s just, er, _department politics_ mean it’s not easy for her to see you right now.”

“I think I understand,” Credence said. “Because of the Project, right?”

“Right,” agreed Percy. “So our meeting is definitely an accidental one and not pre-arranged. No matter what it might look like.”

He held the note out, clicked his fingers, and it erupted into bright yellow flame. When dropped onto his plate, it shrivelled into a blackened twist of ash. A little showy perhaps, but who minded when Credence looked at him with such wonder.

“But before then,” Percy said. “We’re going to pick up your new suit.”

*

It was long past lunchtime when they made their way into Annie’s. Goldstein was already waiting for them, in a corner booth by the window.

“Goldstein,” Percy said, as he waved Credence into the booth and then sat down himself. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“Sir,” she smiled, and then turned immediately to Credence. “I’m so glad to see you--how are you? Are you keeping well? I hope Mr Graves isn’t being too hard on you--he can be a real taskmaster sometimes.”

Credence’s blush was both instantaneous and extremely noticeable. Percy decided to intervene. “Thank you, Goldstein,” he said. “I’m perfectly aware he’s not one of my trainees. And anyway--”

“Yes, I know-- _by failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail_ ,” Goldstein said. And then, to Credence, “We all had that drilled into us, during Auror training. Mr Graves is very thorough in his approach.”

Credence glanced over at Percy. He was wearing that inscrutable look again. “I suppose you’d have to be,” he answered. “It must be very dangerous.”

Goldstein smiled a little sadly and clasped Credence’s hands in her own. “It’s not usually as dangerous as it has been in recent months. And a lot of the time it’s just little stuff, like unauthorised hexes and kids borrowing their parents’ wands.” She brightened and leaned across the table. “There’s a lot of boring paperwork, too.”

Credence returned her smile. A waitress came over and Percy ordered--two cups of coffee, one white, one black, and some tea.

“How would some cherry pie be received?” he asked Credence. 

“Oh, but they do great sundaes here,” Goldstein said, and Percy privately applauded her for such an excellent suggestion. 

Credence looked a little unsure but Goldstein, charm her soul for ever more, grasped the problem immediately.

“We could share?” she said. “I love them but I can never seem to manage one on my own. Queenie prefers pie, so I don’t get the chance much.”

“Okay,” Credence said. “We can do that.”

“That’s settled, then. A banana split, please, and two spoons,” Goldstein said. 

The waitress gathered up the menus and departed, giving Percy space to hide his smile.

Not that either of them paid much attention to him. Goldstein was relentless in her quest to assure herself of Credence’s well-being and Credence didn’t seem to mind her persistent questioning. Percy reflected on how much time they must have already spent in each other’s company. He’d been stuck in the infirmary--and worse--and all the while Goldstein had been in Credence’s corner, trying to defend him as best she could.

It caused him a little pang, one not entirely unpleasant, as he realised Credence was right--even without Percy’s help, he would have been okay. He would have had Goldstein and her sister and even Scamander. And someone called Jacob, who Percy had never heard mentioned before. The new life Percy had advised him to seek, only a few weeks ago, had been ready and waiting for him even then.

Maybe it should have pained him, that Credence didn’t need him in the way he’d once thought. But it didn’t. Instead he felt something settle, deep inside. A reminder the world wasn’t always so bad; that he wasn’t the only one trying to make it a better place. 

_Credence will survive_ , he thought. _No, he’ll do better than just survive--he’ll know happiness and I want to be there to see it._

By the time their orders arrived, Goldstein was enthusiastically retailing a recent letter from Scamander. Percy slowly drank his coffee and tried not to stare too much as Credence tackled his portion of the sundae. His first taste was hesitant and then an expression of private pleasure spread stealthily across his face--one which had become so shockingly familiar Percy had to avert his eyes. When he next glanced over, Credence was licking whipped cream from his spoon. Percy cleared his throat and tried to concentrate on their conversation instead.

“Newt said he was thinking of coming back to New York for a visit,” Goldstein was saying. “I think he’d like to see you if he does.”

Percy joined in abruptly. “He didn’t tell me that. If he needs anything smoothing over I’m sure I can still remind the right people what we owe to him.”

Both of them turned to stare at him. Goldstein’s mouth was hanging open.

“What?” he said. “We correspond. Occasionally. Is that so hard to believe?”

Goldstein forced her features into an expression of credulousness. “Of course not, it’s just, well. He’s very--”

“Odd? Difficult to get along with? Well, so am I. Increasingly so, with each and every passing day.” Percy leant back in his seat and crossed his arms. “And anyway, he’s proved himself more utterly than most people ever do.”

Despite his defensiveness, Goldstein was smiling, in a definitively affectionate manner. It made Percy wonder exactly who for, but Credence interrupted his train of thought.

“Will he be allowed to bring his suitcase?” he asked.

Percy regarded Credence’s flush of hopefulness. “Suitcase? You mean the illegal one, with the animals in?”

“He showed it to me, once,” Credence said. “He wasn’t supposed to, but he did. He let me feed the mooncalves.”

“What in Merlin’s name are mooncalves?” said Percy, and immediately received a barrage of explanation from both Credence and Goldstein. In the end, all he could say was, “It won’t be my decision. Certainly not at the moment.”

That quieted them down. So much so, that Percy felt a little guilty.

“If it _were_ ,” he said, “I should say _absolutely not--_ I mean, _the sheer risk of exposure_ … But, if a famous magizoologist is going to visit New York, there’s a considerable benefit we might get out of it. He could hold a demonstration, or something, for relevant personnel. We certainly have some knowledge gaps to fill. So perhaps, if it was kept under strict custody, it might be permissible.”

“But it’s not your decision,” Goldstein said, sadly.

“No,” Percy said quietly. “It’s not.”

“Maybe, by then, it might be?” she said. 

When Percy didn’t answer, she changed the subject and asked Credence how he was settling into his apartment. Neither of them mentioned Scamander again.

Before they left, Percy got a few minutes alone with Goldstein when Credence went to the washroom.

“You’re getting almost insubordinate, Miss Goldstein,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “This is our second clandestine meeting and now you hope I will bend the rules governing the transport of magical creatures. It’s a surprisingly good look on you.”

She smiled brokenly. “I’ve had to learn the hard way--about sticking to my principles. If I’d done that, rather than let myself be ruled by doubt all the time, then maybe--” Her hands clenched into fists. “Maybe I wouldn’t have so much cause for regret.”

Percy nodded in sympathy; regret seemed to be a popular topic at present. “I think I’m starting to see that learning from our mistakes is the best we can hope for,” he said. “I don’t blame you, by the way. And you’re far from being the only one who didn’t notice. I have to accept that some of the responsibility for that lies with me.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, you were never-- You wouldn’t ever have-- I should have been brave enough to question things more. I wasn’t; Newt was. If it hadn’t been for him… ”

Percy leaned across the table and covered her hands with his own. “Listen,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. Just keep on cultivating that belief in yourself and prove me right by becoming an exemplary Auror. And I’ll-- I don’t know what I’m going to do, not yet. But first I’m going to look after Credence. Like you said, if anything good can come out of this, he’s it.”

She squeezed his hands back. “Sir, I know you were my boss and this might not be appropriate, but-- If there’s anything I can do, I would. In a heartbeat.”

Once, not so long ago, he would have brushed an offer like that aside before it could even touch him. Now the sincerity of it warmed him.

“Thank you, Goldstein,” he said. “It’s good to know I have friends, should I need them. But I assure you I’m fine, and that I have, at present, everything I need.”

“Hmmn,” she said. “Okay then. I suppose I can always ask Credence to keep an eye on you. Speaking of which…” She paused and looked uncomfortable. “I think someone has a little crush. Go easy on him, okay?”

Percy’s mouth fell open. Any and all attempts to respond floundered hopelessly. He was too wrong-footed, poked in too tender a spot, to come up with a suitable answer. Thankfully, Credence saved him by arriving suddenly back at the table.

Goldstein jumped hastily up and rummaged through her bag. “Oh, I nearly forgot! Queenie would be so mad if I had.” She took out a large battered tin and pressed it into Credence’s arms. “She asked me to give this to you. It’s her apple cake.”

Credence stared down at it, surprised and pleased and awkwardly happy. “Thank you,” he said, with a huge and beautiful smile. “Please tell her thank you from me. I hope she didn’t put herself to any trouble.”

Goldstein threw her arms round his shoulders and hugged him tightly. Percy managed to rescue the tin from Credence just in time.

When she pulled back, she was a little damp and red around the eyes. “She didn’t, I promise, she loves baking and it’s never any trouble.” She stood back a little and looked him over, like she was seeing him for the first time. “You look really well, Credence, you know that? And your new suit, too--you look so handsome in it.”

_Doesn’t he just_ , thought Percy. Nothing too drastic, just firm clean lines to emphasise the strength in his striking features. 

“Mr Graves took me to his tailor,” Credence mumbled at the floor, a tiny hint of pink rising up from his collar. “We picked it up this morning.”

Goldstein flashed a significant and searching glance towards Percy. He could see her Auror reflexes kicking in--the wheels of thought turning all too visibly. He decided not to give her any more information than was strictly necessary, opting instead to study the cake tin as if it were a particularly interesting and unusual example of its kind.

When she spoke next, there was a suppressed smile in her voice. “I’ll be seeing you again soon, Credence. Maybe with Queenie, once things have settled down a bit more,” she said. “Take care of yourself, _and of Mr Graves_ \--you hear?”

Percy heaved a great internal sigh. Before he met with Goldstein again, he’d better make sure he was prepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been a bit slow about responding to comments this week but thank you all <333


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daddy kink now firing on all cylinders so buckle up!

The following week passed quickly but when Percy looked back it seemed to stretch out for miles, unspooling with a glowing and gentle warmth. The weather had been fine and sunny, ripe for early afternoon strolls after lunch. Next to Credence--looking very fetching indeed in his new clothing--his lameness seemed unimportant, only a minor inconvenience. And the bravado he’d pasted on fell away in tatters; underneath it lay glimpses of a man he might be, in a future yet to come.

Everything, Percy discovered, was more bearable with Credence there. Better than bearable--much, much better. 

That thought came on so suddenly it was overwhelming enough to warrant another night of Firewhisky and self-interrogation. A voice in his head demanded to know what he intended to do about all those warm, fuzzy feelings. And more than that: was he actually capable of the follow-through he so fondly imagined on those cosy walks in the Park? He tried to answer but the voice reminded him, rather forcefully, of his long solitary history and his rather pathetic habit of escaping anyone who got too close.

A long time ago, there had been a fellow trainee during Auror selection and then, a little later, a bank clerk he’d met by chance at a bar. A smattering of brief encounters, too, and by the time war had rolled around even those had been few and far between. They said that confrontations with death brought about a corresponding desire for life--for sex, love, and everything in between. He’d seen it himself: men seeking the dubious comforts of brothels; soldiers forming unexpected bonds, some of which lasted into peacetime and some which ended quietly as they returned to their sweethearts back home. Not for Percy--he’d built himself great walls which had only grown with his rising career. He’d lived alone, been captured alone, and then, in the dark, woken alone. There had been no one, at all, until Credence had crept quietly into his heart.

Toby Jenkins had been the first escape; a pattern that the rest had followed. Recently, a furtive desire had awoken in Percy to reach for quill and parchment, to try and form, if not a letter, then something akin to an apology. Once, he’d almost succeeded. But a dreadful kind of shame had stopped him, for he now understood the escape had been Toby’s, not his. Toby would have moved on and forgotten all about him--the chance Percy hadn’t grasped would’ve been taken by someone else. And it would do Toby no good to hear Percy’s ill-formed regrets and be too late to make any difference. So, the letter remained unwritten, and he tried to believe that was through good intentions rather than cowardice.

Though the days of that week were warm and happy, the nights were quite another matter. Percy’s nightmares, usually full of a choking, terrifying void, had a new weapon. Instead of the emptiness being trapped within his own self, he watched it walk around wearing his face. As if in a mirror, he saw it do everything he’d done since waking in the infirmary; getting back on his feet, talking with Seraphina, teaching Credence magic. And worse things: kissing him, touching, whispering sweet meaningless words which were as empty as the man who spoke them.

He would wake to the glow of the lamp on the nightstand, sweating and afraid. Then, rising, he would sit by the sitting room fire and brood over Credence, hoping his sleep was peaceful and untroubled, and renewing the vow he’d made to take care of him, over and over again.

*

“Did I do something wrong?” Credence burst out with, mid-way through the next day’s lesson. “It’s been almost a week and-- And--” He blushed furiously. “Since-- _You know_.”

“Ah,” Percy said, not very eloquently.

It was Saturday; another beautiful summer’s day. Percy had planned to make amends for his recent distance that very evening. It had been quite deliberate on his part--an attempt to shelter Credence from his nightmares and, hopefully, keep him focused on learning magic. Rather than learning other, very different, things.

“No, sweetheart, far from it,” he said. “I’m sorry you were worried. But let’s concentrate on getting this perfectly and then later we can...” But Credence looked so mutinously stubborn that Percy stopped and sighed. “Or we could give this up for the week and talk now. If that’s what you want?”

“I can’t concentrate,” Credence said. “I managed this alright last night on my own but now I can’t seem to stop the legs from coming out all wrong.”

“Did you?” Percy said, with a splash of pride. “Well, at least that means I don’t feel have to guilty about spoiling your lesson.”

He picked up his wand and turned Credence’s wobbly-legged table back into the empty trunk they used for practice. In the past couple of days, Credence had had a breakthrough in Transfiguration. The glass teacup still eluded him but the trunk had fared better. So far it had successfully been turned into a trunk of a different colour, a fat black cat, and now a side table. Shrinking and expanding would be next--wand or no wand, Percy was convinced Credence could manage it.

After that, Percy Apparated them both back to his apartment. Credence went straight through to the sitting room and sat rigidly down on the couch. Lunch was clearly not something on his mind.

“You look like you’re braced for bad news,” Percy said, sitting beside him.

Credence shrugged, an aborted, heartbreaking little movement, which spoke of his endless disappointments and low expectations. “I thought you’d changed your mind,” he said. “That maybe you didn’t really want me but was trying to be nice about it.”

Percy moved nearer; Credence was stiff as a board, arms held protectively close to his sides.

He shook his head. “It’s really not that,” Percy said, looking away, over his sitting room and the evidence of his long bachelorhood. The single armchair by the fireplace, one clean glass set out on the drinks cabinet. There was nothing in the entire apartment he hadn’t put there himself. “More like the exact opposite.”

Credence said nothing more. Percy knew he was listening, thinking, but there was no telling what those thoughts were made up of.

“I’ve been imagining you happy enough this past week,” Percy said. “But it seems like that wasn’t the case. Again, I’m sorry.”

“I was happy,” Credence said, finally looking up. “I _am_ happy. Until I’m not. It’s complicated, I can’t explain it very well.”

Percy cautiously took his hand. It was limp, almost unfeeling, between his own. “I’ve been feeling the same,” he said. “You must think me very experienced, Credence, but I’m not--not in everything. Some things are new for both of us.” He squeezed the hand in his grasp and was encouraged when it curled around his own. “In the past, I haven’t been very good at this. I think this time, though, I can be. For you. If you’ll let me try.”

Credence was watching him, wide-eyed and serious, utterly still.

Percy took a deep breath. “You know what this is, don’t you, sweet boy? What this is called?”

An expression of happy anguish passed across Credence’s features. He nodded. Percy pulled him in tight against his chest, held him there, and hoped the thudding of his heart said all he couldn’t.

It must’ve been enough for Credence because he soon raised his head to speak. “Can I stay with you tonight?” he said, voice soft and careful.

“If you’re sure, sweetheart, then yes--I’d like nothing more.”

His answer must’ve settled something in Credence’s mind, because he gazed clear-eyed at Percy then slid down onto the floor between his knees.

Percy straightened quickly up in his seat. “We don’t have to do it like this--or at all, even.” He brushed his fingers through Credence’s hair, stroked the back of his neck. “I’d like to take you to bed, you know; make love to you properly.”

Credence glanced up, confused. “You said to take what I need,” he said.

Percy swallowed. All of a sudden his breath was a little short. “I did say that, yes.”

Credence dropped his eyes again and reached for Percy’s fly. Percy choked back a strangled noise as it was undone and tried hard to keep his baser instincts in check.

But then Credence faltered. “I don’t really know what to do,” he said. “It’s easier when you tell me.”

The look he gave Percy was so polite and appealing that to refuse would have taken a much stronger man than Percy was.

“Would that help?” Percy asked. “If I talked you through it?”

“Please,” Credence said, nodding. He rested his cheek on Percy’s good thigh, a gesture placed somewhere between shy uncertainty and a cat with an extremely good scratching post.

Percy balled his hands up into fists and reminded himself of his earlier, more gentlemanly, intentions to treat Credence right. It didn’t really work, and he wasn’t sure why he expected it to: the boy was really quite the surprise.

He gathered himself enough to say, as sternly as possible, “Only if you promise to tell me straight away if there’s anything you don’t like or don’t want to do. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mr Graves,” Credence said, with a soft smile.

“Well. Let’s take it slow, then,” Percy said, and studied Credence’s face.

There was a becoming flush across his cheeks; his eyes were repeatedly drawn to the rumple of undone fabric in his lap and the sliver of white underwear peeking through Percy’s fly. His lips parted a little; once, his tongue drew unconsciously over them.

Percy smiled, his blood more heated than he’d thought possible over something so small. “Is there anything in particular you’d like me to talk you through?” he said, in a teasing voice.

But Credence froze, and looked nervously up. There were so many things not in his vocabulary, Percy realised. If Credence were going to be able to say them at all, he’d have to teach him the words.

He cradled Credence’s jaw in one hand, letting a thumb brush over his part-open mouth. With the other, he reached into his pants. Credence rushed to assist but Percy gently stopped him.

“Just watch for now, sweetheart.”

Credence did as he was told and watched, tense and trembling, as Percy rearranged his clothing to expose himself. His cock lay across the crease of his hip, not yet fully hard, but thickening under Credence’s wide-eyed gaze. Percy stroked his palm over it and Credence’s breath stuttered hot against the thumb still pressed to his lips. Percy applied a little pressure, and this time Credence reacted; the plush softness of his mouth gave way so he could graze his tongue along the pad.

“Good boy,” Percy said, voice rough with approval.

Credence bit back a moan and when Percy pushed his thumb further into his mouth, he welcomed it with an enthusiasm which surprised them both. His lips closed around it and he sucked a little before letting it slide back out.

“A very good boy,” Percy said, softly, starting to touch himself in earnest now. “Do you like that?”

“Yes,” Credence whispered. “Yes, Mr Graves.”

“ _Credence_ ,” Percy said, with a jolt of shocking lust. He gripped the base of his cock and forced himself to still. There was something raw in those words; also in how Credence looked when he said them. “Do you want to tell me why you’ve started to call me that again?”

For a moment, Credence seemed lost and Percy wondered if he knew how to answer. But he dragged his eyes up to Percy’s face and said, fiercely, “Because you’re _my_ Mr Graves.” His fingers curled hard into Percy’s sides and his expression changed, entreating and a little desperate. “Aren’t you?” he asked. “Do you understand?”

Percy tried to soothe him, stroking the hair from Credence’s forehead with sudden tenderness. “Of course I do,” he said, though it wasn’t strictly true. But as long as Credence understood enough for the both of them, it would do for now. “And you’re my good boy.”

Credence nodded. He still looked distressingly anguished. “I want to be,” he said. “So much.”

Percy smoothed his rumpled brow. “You are,” he said. “So there’s no need to look so unhappy. Would you like to show me how good you are?”

“Yes,” he said, and his eagerness made Percy want to groan. “Please, Mr Graves.”

He took two fingers and rested them on Credence’s bottom lip. Credence’s breath hitched; his mouth opened further, and Percy slid them smoothly inside. Credence’s cheeks hollowed as he suckled on them, his dark lashes fluttered. A beautiful deep rose blush spread across his face and down his neck. Percy was willing to bet it went all the way down his chest.

“Such a good boy,” he breathed. “Are there other parts of me you wish to have in your mouth, I wonder?”

Credence made a stuttered sort of moan, and grabbed for Percy’s wrist lest he try and pull his hand back. His tongue flickered over Percy's fingers; curled around them when Percy crooked them. When his eyes weren’t closed in bliss, he stared at where Percy’s other fingers squeezed gently up and down.

“Maybe another time,” Percy said, watching the wet slide of Credence's lips over his knuckles, his intense concentration. Imagining what Credence was imagining was almost better than the real thing. “It's okay to let yourself want, Credence. There's no hurry to act.”

Credence drew back and let Percy's fingers slip from his mouth. “What do you want?” he said, dark-eyed, lips red and slick.

Percy allowed himself time to consider this. His aroused state gave him many answers, each more lewd and glorious than the last. But the truest answer was simple and so honest it was near painful.

“Everything you care to give me,” he said, and then grinned slyly. “And to give you more pleasure than you think you can stand.”

His reward for that was another lovely blush. That Credence still thought his own pleasure shocking, even in his current wet-mouthed state of dishevelment, should not have been surprising or so charming.

“Now, keep your hands up here where I can see them,” Percy said, patting the couch on either side of his legs. “I'm going to take care of you afterwards, understand?”

“Yes, Mr Graves,” Credence said, obeying easily.

It was a beautiful gesture, a precious thing Percy wanted to treasure and reward. He tilted Credence’s chin gently up and pushed his thumb tip back inside his mouth. Credence's eyes fell closed; his tongue a hot cushion under Percy's thumb. 

“I want you to watch,” Percy said, bringing his hand back to his cock. “I want you to think about having me in your mouth and if that's something you want to try. Okay?”

Credence moaned, a little muffled, and opened his eyes. Percy pushed deeper into his mouth. 

“Good boy.”

The rhythm his hand took up on his cock was rapid and firm, all pretence of restraint gone. He was in too deep to slow down and Credence seemed to agree. Any last traces of shyness had disappeared; he bobbed his head gladly, sucking up and down, lips wrapped plushly round his thumb. 

“That's right--just do what feels natural,” Percy groaned, jerking himself hard. “I want you to enjoy yourself.”

The heat of Credence’s mouth was astonishing, as were the wet, abandoned sounds he made. It was nearly enough for Percy, even just like this. Credence was eager to please, yes, but more than that--he enjoyed it, and the more he enjoyed it the more he forgot himself. He used his tongue to caress and stroke; he sank down as far as he could, over and over. Percy pulled his thumb free with a reluctant _pop_ and offered Credence two fingers again. Credence rose to the challenge with enthusiasm, tongue sliding along their length, the heat of his mouth growing wetter all the time. 

When some of it spilled free, Credence tried to wipe it away but Percy stopped him.

“Feels so good, sweetheart,” he said. “And looks incredible--my sweet boy, so obedient, so good.”

Credence caught his gaze, his cheeks blazing and eyes bright with desire.

An unstoppable heat pooled deep in Percy’s gut, until his balls were full and heavy with it. “Look at me, now--I want you watching, when I--”

Credence moaned around his fingers, eyes locked to Percy’s firm strokes just as he came, over his fist and onto his open pants.

Credence stilled, breathing heavily, watching with rapt attention as the last few careless spurts were coaxed free. But he didn’t dare move to touch it, no matter how obviously he wanted to.

Percy’s fingers were still in his mouth; slowly, he pulled them free. Credence’s eyes met his again--he was panting, maybe even a little wild, when he sprawled up and onto Percy’s lap for a kiss. It was needy and urgent; under his own, Credence’s mouth was luscious, slick and swollen, his chin wet.

“You did so well,” Percy said, nipping at Credence’s bottom lip. His hand strayed to cup between Credence’s legs. “I would like to thank you. Will you let me?”

Credence took a broken breath in and nodded. His shut his eyes tight and Percy kissed his cheek when he undid Credence’s pants to reach inside. His cock was rigid, so hard it must have been near painful. Credence hissed at the light and careful brush of his fingers across the slick and sticky tip.

“My poor sweet boy,” Percy said. “You’ve been so patient.”

He wrapped his fingers firmly around Credence’s cock and stroked him in short, tight pulls. Credence gasped and ducked his head, pushing his face into Percy’s neck. Percy didn’t change his rhythm; Credence was almost silent but the taut line of his shoulders and the sharp pleading cling of his fingers told Percy everything he needed to know.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” he asked. The only sounds were the wet slide of his hand on Credence’s cock and Credence’s ragged breathing. “Do I make you feel good?”

“ _Mr Graves_ , yes, oh yes,” Credence panted into Percy's neck. His body shook; his cock pulsed; he came with a long shuddering moan he seemed helpless to hold back.

Percy rubbed his back in soothing circles. The hot puff of Credence’s breath quietened against his neck but he didn’t draw away as Percy expected. On the contrary, he appeared very content to stay curled up, half in Percy’s lap. Percy, unsure what else to do, was happy to oblige him.

And, in truth, the pause was welcome. Though also extremely content, he was a little shocked at himself; the things which had passed between them sounded quite outrageously obscene when he recounted them back. He’d never had an encounter like it.

“You still with me?” he murmured after a while, close to Credence’s ear. “That position can’t be good for your back.”

Credence, being much too tall to both sit in Percy’s lap and nuzzle into his neck, appeared to concede the point. He sat up straighter and rolled his shoulders. Percy massaged them a little, noting how open his countenance was. Without any self-consciousness, Credence gave off quite a different air--one of quiet but modest assurance. Somehow it was lovelier than his even brightest smile.

Percy quashed the urge to tell him how beautiful he was--it would only hurry along his inevitable shyness.

“Let’s get cleaned up, then we’ll eat,” Percy said. “A shower, I think.”

“Yes, Mr Graves,” Credence smiled, this time warm and teasing. He slid off Percy’s lap and then grimaced a little. 

“Precisely,” Percy said. “So into the bathroom with you. I’ll set a scouring charm on our clothes while we wash. It’s not my best magic and I wouldn’t recommend letting me near such a delicate area while you’re still in them.”

“Aren’t you going to”--Credence wiggled his fingers in the air--“you know?”

“Some things,” Percy said, “are more fun done by hand.”

*

By the time they got to the bathroom, Credence was still blushing a deep, rich red over Percy’s comment. It grew even deeper once Percy set his shirt to unbutton itself. He pressed a kiss to Credence’s hot cheek and decided its current shade was his new favourite colour. In fact, he liked it so much he decided to tell Credence so.

“Such a rosy pink. Makes your eyes sparkle,” he said. “It’s very, very becoming.”

Despite his embarrassment, this made Credence laugh. “No,” he said. “Percy, no, you d--”

“So, it'sPercy again, is it?” He smiled and placed a soft kiss on Credence's lips. “I’m glad you know where those lines are drawn, because I don’t seem to. Not that I mind much.”

Credence’s blush grew a little more pronounced. “It just feels right. You do understand, don't you?”

Percy thought about that. “I think some of it, yes,” he said, honestly. “Not all of it.”

Credence looked worried. “Do you not like it? Is it bad? Should I not call you that anymore?”

“I like it a whole lot,” Percy said. “That’s the part I haven’t fully understood.”

Credence chewed on his lip. Percy waited for him to finish thinking and start talking. He knew what followed would be surprising but he still wasn’t quite prepared for it when it came.

“When I met the you that wasn’t you,” Credence said, immediately making Percy’s heart seize in fear of what might come next. “I think I wanted a lot of things I didn’t understand. I wanted them so much I didn’t see the truth--that the Mr Graves I imagined wasn’t real. It was only with you that I realised who Mr Graves really is.”

“And who is he, sweetheart?” The question reminded Percy uncomfortably of his dreams, his worries. What if whatever Credence saw in him proved to be a chimera? Maybe he was only an empty vessel for Credence to project onto.

“Someone I feel safe with,” Credence said. He took Percy’s hands in his own. “Safe, and other things too. Lustful things. But they’re not bad--it’s okay for me to be that way with him. He makes it okay, somehow.”

Percy’s brows knitted together. He didn’t, _couldn’t_ understand the faith Credence had in him.

“You’re both, you see,” Credence said. “Percy _and_ Mr Graves. I could never have imagined Percy like I imagined Mr Graves. But Mr Graves is a part of you and he’s real. To me, sometimes you’re more one than the other, that’s all.”

Percy was rooted to the spot, Credence’s fingers twined with his own. And then, all at once, a lot of things made sense. 

He’d worked hard to construct an image of himself so others saw what he needed them to. It had been useful when navigating his career but somewhere along the way even he’d forgotten it was just an image. The Graves of old was shorthand, a hard outer shell; a truncated version of a man who’d nearly been smothered out of existence. And then Credence had re-named him and brought him back to life--a life which was occasionally painful and difficult, but full of things he’d been too stupid to notice he was missing.

Credence had made him more whole than he’d ever been. He’d been right not to settle for ‘just Graves’: few other people had learned so well how untrustworthy and unsatisfactory a facade could be. Instead, he’d looked deep inside and found that which Percy had supposed lost--himself. All the troublesome contradictions and tempers and urges; all his need to protect and provide, to take care of his sweet boy. All the things which made up a man. A revelation, and all brought about by--

“Percy?” Credence said, tentatively.

He was looking at him with concern, no longer shy and embarrassed. Just thoughtful, wise in the strangest of ways.

Percy seized him around the shoulders and kissed him, until he was breathless with it. Until the soft strands of his hair and the sharp angles of his body were the only things which mattered. Until his soft gasps became little groans, and he pressed forward into Percy with a desperation to match his own.

“Oh no,” Percy said, breaking away. He passed a hand over his face to steady himself. “I’m too old for this--later. Hex it, _later_ , I promise.”

Credence’s expression changed; he looked chastened, folding in on himself. 

“No, no,” Percy said, holding him with renewed gentleness. “I didn’t mean that. It’s, er, me. I can’t again, so soon. It’s my age.”

Now it was confusion which reigned on Credence’s face. “You’ll understand in time,” Percy explained. “It’s not that I don’t want to. But maybe I can-- In the shower, maybe I can make you feel good?”

Credence blinked owlishly, as if this had not occurred to him until now. “Maybe?”

Percy grinned at him, and waved the shower on. “Better get those clothes off, then,” he said, and sent his own shirt into the hamper.

Credence hovered in a corner while Percy took out fresh towels and checked the water temperature. When he turned back around, Credence was still there, still fully dressed, and looking increasingly nervous.

“Changed your mind about joining me?” Percy asked, stepping out of his pants.

Credence opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he was going to say got lost on the way out. His eyes--very round--fixed on Percy’s naked midriff, and Percy felt the return of a certain self-confidence which had been absent from his life for far too long.

He took a step towards Credence and held out his hand. “Credence?”

Credence didn’t move but he did reach out for Percy’s hand. Percy took the hint and went to him instead, holding him loosely around the waist.

“Everything okay?” Percy said. “You can go in on your own if it makes you feel better. I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want.”

Credence looked over Percy’s shoulder, at the curtained shower cubicle. “Will we both fit?” he said, after a moment.

“Not without some modifications,” Percy said. “Luckily for us, that doesn’t pose much of a problem.”

“Oh, of course,” Credence said. “I keep forgetting. I wonder when it will become ordinary to me.”

“If you ever think of my magic as ordinary,” laughed Percy, “I will be very offended indeed.”

He kissed the corner of Credence’s answering smile and, with his fingers, undid the top two buttons of Credence’s shirt. Credence froze, then grasped his hands and stopped him.

“I will,” Credence said. “Just let me? If you get in first, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Percy frowned a little at his tone. But Credence didn’t notice; he was staring towards the floor, at the space between them. Then his fingertips brushed the top of Percy’s thigh; the lame one.

“I thought there’d be a mark,” he said. “There’s nothing.”

“No,” Percy agreed. “Nothing at all, not even under the skin. No one can tell me why it hurts. If it’s all in my head or if there’s another reason for the pain.”

Credence nodded, thoughtfully. “An invisible scar.” He stroked his thumb over the line of muscle but stopped suddenly. “Does it hurt now? Should I not do that?”

Percy shook his head. “It’s like very bad cramp,” he said. “Sometimes touching helps. Massage, that kind of thing.” He took Credence’s hand and kissed his fingers. “I’ll wait for you. Don’t dawdle and let yourself get cold.”

He kicked off his underwear and stepped into the shower. A few murmured words and the cubicle assumed more suitable proportions. For good measure, he made another shower head sprout from the pipe. No point having room for two if they both couldn’t fit under the spray.

Double the amount of water meant double the amount of noise. It thundered onto the porcelain basin and through it the rustle of the curtain went almost unheard.

Credence crept in, head poking through the curtain first, and then he was standing before Percy. His skin was very white, his bones still a touch too sharp. He held himself awkwardly; it made him look more fragile than he really was. There were the beginnings of dark hair on his chest, sparse and scattered. Percy smiled and touched it. Credence smiled back but it soon fractured and underneath was fright and shame. He looked almost sick with it.

Percy nearly spoke but held back. Something told him that words weren’t what Credence needed. Instead, he brushed Credence’s wet hair back from his face and tried his hardest to look solid and reassuring--to look like Mr Graves. Credence blinked back at him. Under the spray it was hard to tell but there might have been tears on his face.

Then, Credence tensed his shoulders, in a weak approximation of nonchalance, and turned around, like he was simply looking for the soap. When he did, Percy understood at once why he’d been so reluctant to undress and why he couldn’t speak of it.

At first, Percy just looked, trying bend his mind around what he saw. The force which must have been necessary, and repeated so often, to create such lasting marks. They laced over his back, curved around his ribs, down across his hips. The cuts must have been deep. Some had healed poorly, pulling the skin into strange shapes. Some would have bled for days.

_His mother beats him,_ he heard in Goldstein’s voice. He’d read it in the report but he’d never really connected permanent physical consequences with the boy in front of him. Credence had marks on his palms, a little collection of pink and white lines, and Percy had somehow assumed that had been the extent of it. How could he have been so blind? And how lucky that the person who’d done this was already dead, else he’d have to leave right this minute to correct it.

The debt he owed Goldstein was now very clear. He would never be able to thank her enough for what she’d done for Credence. 

All the while, the water beat down relentlessly, dousing them in white noise. Maybe only a few brief seconds had passed. Credence stood silently, trembling a little with the effort of not fleeing. 

Later, he would kiss every single scar. He would learn them, their patterns and textures. He would do all this when Credence could bear it, when maybe he could even speak of them. Percy would find a way to show him he thought him full of strength, infuse them with his love. That was the most Percy could do and he would have to let that be enough.

He slipped his arms around Credence and held him tight; kissed his neck, shoulder, jaw, anything he could reach. “My sweet boy,” was all he could say.

And if there were tears on his face too, then the water washed them away, so Credence wouldn’t ever have to witness them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all for your wonderful comments - I look forward to reading them every week :D


	11. Chapter 11

Credence had woken the next morning tucked tightly under Percy's arm. Unlike the last time, he’d felt no creeping sense of unreality, no uncertainty. He’d only been warm and very, very comfortable, like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

Again, Percy had given him a pair of his pyjamas to wear. Before that, Credence had spent some time in a state of shocking and rather wonderful undress. So had Percy, which had been even better. Following their shower, they'd eaten a very late lunch and then spent the rest of the day in Percy's bed. Percy had demonstrated some extremely interesting things, some of which Credence had tentatively tried out as well. By the time they'd finished, more clean up had been needed, and more food, and finally sleep.

All in all, it had been a remarkable day.

This time, Percy insisted upon Credence remaining exactly where he was. When Credence tried to wriggle out of bed, Percy had grabbed him round the middle and lain on top of him to prevent it.

“I forbid it,” he’d said. “I will make coffee and fetch breakfast--whatever you want--and you’ll eat it here.”

“In bed?” Credence had asked. “Really?” And he’d looked around at the rumpled blankets and the single nightstand, and wondered where on earth everything would go. Magic, he supposed, made even the business of eating a very different thing.

“You can use the bathroom, if you must,” Percy had said, when he’d made it out of bed and into his dressing gown. “But when I come back, I want that warm spot to still be warm and to find you squarely in the centre of it. Absolutely no coming to see if I need any help or if you can carry anything.”

After that, Percy had risen to clatter about in the kitchen and Credence had remained on his back, staring at the ceiling. Or, not precisely at the ceiling, more like the spot just before it, so everything in his vision was fuzzy and unfocused and he could let his thoughts swim about as they wanted. It matched the feeling sitting under his skin, also fuzzy and unfocused, but soft too; soft and gentle and full of warmth. He’d heard of the phrase _glowing with happiness_ and that seemed the closest he could get to describing it.

Eventually he’d roused himself a little and sat up against the pillows. It would be no good to be lying about like a rag doll when breakfast arrived.

The tray announced Percy’s return; it floated into the room gracefully, piled high with cups and plates, a mound of bagels, a teapot, and several little dishes.

“I didn’t know what topping you’d prefer,” Percy said, following behind. “So I brought some of everything.”

A blanket--one kicked to the bottom of the bed over the course of the night--rose up and arranged itself into a ghostly kind of table across Credence’s lap. The tray rested gently on top and Credence could see that Percy had indeed brought everything. There was butter, several types of jelly, cream cheese, lox, scrambled egg, sliced fresh fruit, and cinnamon and sugar. Credence stared at the selection and then stared at Percy.

“Really, you don’t have to go to so much trouble,” Credence said. “I’d eat any of this.”

Percy climbed back in beside him and set out two plates onto the blanket-table. “Nonsense,” Percy replied, slipping a bagel onto Credence’s plate. “What would you like?”

Credence considered the spread in front of him. He’d always just eaten what he’d been given; choice had never come into it. “I don’t know.” 

“Try a bit of everything, then,” Percy said, with an easy wink.

His cup of coffee was already half-drunk--Credence could suddenly see him in the kitchen, searching through cupboards, the fridge, the pantry; looking for things to offer Credence. That would have been all the noise he’d heard, doors opening and shutting, the necessary tableware assembled, and a fresh cup of coffee steaming on the side. For all his breezy self-assurance, he wasn’t confident about pleasing Credence and Credence couldn’t fathom why. It made his insides ache in a complicated but pleasant way.

“Okay,” smiled Credence, and began to methodically work his way round the tray. 

Eating in bed turned out to be cosy and very companionable. They had to sit very close together and Percy’s warmth against his side seemed to give something as ordinary as breakfast a special and secluded quality. His favourite kind of bagel, Credence decided, was filled with cream cheese and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Percy had taken his wand and made the sugar mixture bubble into crispness while Credence watched, fascinated.

“This is a very basic form of domestic magic,” Percy explained. “Very good cooks can take the raw ingredients and, with a series of spells, by the time they hit the table they’re dinner.”

“I wonder if I could do that,” Credence said. “Maybe Queenie could teach me. She bakes a lot.”

Percy gave him a glance. “Maybe she could.” He shuffled a little closer, slipped his arms around Credence. “There’s a lot of magic you could learn, Credence, things we’ve never even touched on. You’ll have a lot of choices to make soon.”

“Would you tell me about some of them?” Credence asked. “I read all the books you gave me, and one of them mentioned potions and--” 

A sharp noise came from the window. For a moment, Credence thought it was Bertie again, but then he saw it was quite a different kind of bird. A large and imperious-looking eagle, tawny feathers edged with gold in the sunlight. 

Percy sighed. “That will be Seraphina.” He got out of bed and belted his dressing gown again. “Trust her to interrupt what was turning out to be a perfect Sunday.”

He waved the latch open and the window swung wide, but the eagle remained where it was on the sill. It regarded him loftily while he took its note, barely lifting a leg to assist.

“Still such a friendly old thing, I see,” Percy said. “Never change, Chrysopteron.”

Chrysopteron continued to glare magnificently into the middle distance, unaffected.

Credence stifled the laugh which threatened to escape. “Birds don’t seem to like you much, do they?” he said, with a mostly-straight face. 

Percy swung an amused glance round at him but it slid away as he read Madam Picquery’s note. After a moment, he nodded at Chrysopteron, who swooped off silently.

“We’ve been summoned,” Percy said. “She wants to see you in action.”

He dropped the note next to Credence’s plate. Credence read it carefully twice over. 

> _Re: Project proposal meeting_
> 
> _As promised following your visit, I have put considerable thought into your request. Your arguments have merit and I’ve decided it will be best for all if a further demonstration were to be conducted in front of the Committee. If you are indeed correct, we may even be able to conclude the Project earlier than planned. Any resulting decisions can be implemented swiftly after._
> 
> _I will see you both at 9am on Monday._

Percy was sitting on the edge of the bed, pensive and still. Credence folded up the note and went back to his cinnamon bagel. He wasn’t in the least surprised. In fact, he found it was what he’d expected all along. Why else would she have sent Percy to test him, if not to call him back later to see if he’d passed?

“If it goes well,” Credence said, “I can have a wand. And that means I get to stay and live like a normal wizard, right?”

Percy watched him carefully. “Right.”

“That’s what you wanted, then,” said Credence. “Unless you think it will go badly? What will happen then?”

“It’s not going to go badly,” Percy said. “All they really want is to be sure you won’t blow our cover by accidentally summoning a Hippogriff in the middle of Times Square.”

“And that I’m not going to join Grindelwald’s supporters,” Credence said. “Or be any use to them.”

Percy gave him an assessing look. “That too,” he admitted. “But anyone who spends more than a minute in your company is going to learn dark magic is not in your nature.” 

He stretched out his leg and rubbed it absent-mindedly. “You’re going to do fine,” he said. “More than fine. I just don’t like the idea of you performing like a trained seal for the likes of Cromwell Leach.” He looked up at Credence. “My replacement--horrible, sweaty little man.”

Credence slipped over to the edge of the bed, pulled Percy’s hand away from his thigh and replaced it with his own. “Does that help?” he asked, kneading gently.

Percy groaned and tipped his head back. “Yes,” he said. “Very much so, keep going.” Then he recollected himself, and said, “You’re very calm about this.”

“Now it’s happened it seems obvious,” Credence said. “They were never going to let me disappear and live quietly. They can’t. Because of what I’ve done and what I am.”

Percy took his hand. “Is that what you’d like? To go away and live a quiet life?”

“I’m not sure,” Credence said. “I thought so. Maybe I would for a little while.”

There was a short silence; Percy stared fiercely at his knees, lips pursed, brows drawn. “If you want to go somewhere and disappear,” he said. “I would come with you. Leave New York behind and follow you wherever you wanted.”

“What about your job?” Credence said, disbelievingly. “Don’t you want it back?”

“I don’t know anymore.” Then he frowned and said, “I don’t want Leach to have it either.”

Credence couldn’t help a little laugh. He let himself be pulled against Percy’s side, leaned into his shoulder and pressed his face down into his neck. “I don’t mind the city so much,” he said. “Not now.”

Percy sighed against him. “Can’t decide anything until we know what our options are,” he said. “At least we have today to enjoy.”

At the first touch of his lips against his temple, Credence closed his eyes. Then Percy’s arm snaked further around his waist and pulled him down onto the bed. When he next opened them, the tray had vanished. Percy waved a hand and the blanket-table dissolved back into a regular blanket and settled down over them.

Percy rolled over and up onto his elbows, above Credence. “What a picture you are,” he said. “Wearing my pyjamas, wrapped up in my sheets. I wonder what it would take to persuade you to stay here all day.”

Credence blinked up at him, very tempted to let himself be persuaded. But, after a moment, his sense of duty won out. “It’s Sunday,” he said. “I’ve got church.”

The look of grudging defeat on Percy’s face was nearly comical. “I suppose you won’t like it if I suggest other forms of worship are just as good to God,” he said. “Or at least that’s what I’ve heard, anyway. Just promise to come back straight after?”

*

“Should I be worried about this church of yours?” Percy had said, as they’d both risen and got dressed. “I mean--are you sure it’s a good idea to get mixed up in all that again?”

Credence had thought seriously for a moment before answering. “Why don’t you come see for yourself?”

Which was how Percy found himself standing before a modest red-brick building somewhere on East 15th Street. A scattering of No-Majs passed up its steps in little knots and went inside. He’d fully intended to march in and personally evaluate every single person in there; watch Credence like a hawk if he had to. But now he was here it seemed excessive. Beyond excessive, actually, and heading squarely into a territory marked ‘paranoia’.

“Are you coming in?” Credence asked, a little too tentatively for Percy’s liking.

He became suddenly aware of the thunderous mood he’d developed, nursed along by dark thoughts of religious fanatics filling Credence’s head with nonsense. And yet everyone he’d seen so far had looked exceptionally mild--a couple had even wished them a quiet and friendly ‘good morning’. Credence had returned their greetings, shyly pleased. It was already a radically different prospect from the dour New Salem church; no speeches and no leafleting, just an open door at the top of the steps.

Percy softened his demeanor. “No, you go on in,” he said. “I’ll wait for you. Now I’m here it feels like too much of an intrusion for me to hang around inside while you all do whatever it is you do in there.”

Credence nodded, and said a little sadly, “I know I can’t make friends here but--”

They were interrupted by the arrival of a frail and harmless-looking old lady. Percy was on the brink of offering to help her up the steps and only just remembered in time that nowadays steps gave him just as much trouble as they did her. But he mastered his scowl before it could spread too far, and enough to smile encouragingly at Credence as he took the old lady’s grateful arm.

“We’ll talk when you’re done,” he said, as Credence made his way slowly up to the door, keeping pace with her halting steps. “I’ll be over there.”

He pointed across the street, to a little park. There was seat under a large spreading tree which would do very well--he had some thinking to do.

*

The little park proved to be very conducive to thought. A lot seemed to have happened, even just that morning. A lot of conflicting and deeply-felt emotions had all rubbed up against each other--and every single one of them concerned Credence.

_It’s a rather tiring business_ , thought Percy, _having someone to love_. No wonder he’d never bothered before--where would he have found the time? Or the energy?

There had been the intense and satisfying happiness of seeing Credence wake; of seeing him warm and comfortable and relaxed. Then there was the bright and painful happiness of seeing him reflect his own right back at Percy. To check he hadn’t imagined it, Percy took a few minutes to dwell thoroughly upon that. He remembered very clearly his sleep-rumpled head and a glimpse of something shocked and soft in his eye over breakfast. Percy had seen it and thought, _yes, you know, don’t you? You know it as much as I do_.Again, he felt that stab under ribs like someone had got him with a Stinging Hex--it ached and made his eyes water and he wanted it never to stop.

There was the fear, too, that something would take it from them--their uncertain future after the Project concluded, or some evil after-effect of Grindelwald’s, or now this new church Credence had found. This new thing--this _love_ \--was fragile and helpless. Surely it couldn’t survive in such a world.

_That’s it,_ thought Percy. _That’s the name for what’s coiling around my insides and tiring me out: fear. It would be much easier to love without all this fear cluttering things up. How on earth do people manage it?_

Seraphina’s note kept thrusting itself into his thoughts, particularly the ominous promise that ‘resulting decisions could be implemented swiftly after’. To Credence, he’d made it sound like his appearance at the Committee was a simple step, that being allowed a wand was all there was to it.

But there would be more to come--he needed to be educated, properly and thoroughly, in all the branches of magic. He would need a place, a purpose, a job. And Percy had the horrible feeling Seraphina had already decided that for him. When it came to Credence’s talent, his obvious power, and his troubled history, it made perfect sense. If so, Credence was absolutely right about not being allowed to live a quiet life: MACUSA wouldn’t forget about Credence Barebone. They’d want to keep an even closer eye on him than before.

Percy groaned aloud and put his head in his hands. Without realising it, he’d been fondly imagining a cosy future with only the two of them and nothing else to intrude. Even, sometimes, saying ‘to hell with it’ and walking away from his job, from the whole damn mess. It was only a fantasy but it had given him comfort. The _real_ future--now, that was shaping up to be something quite different. And Percy couldn’t be easy about it. 

Earlier, while they’d finished dressing, he’d quizzed Credence about his beliefs. Credence had said that now he’d seen the world beyond the New Salemers he’d concluded that the idea of God wasn’t something his Ma had given him. Everyone had it, even if they didn’t it call it by the same name. Something called belief or hope or trust. Something which, even during his worst moments, had helped him cling on and not let go, even when he’d been tempted not to. Even when a better future seemed impossible.

Percy leaned back against the bench and looked out across the park. There was noise and traffic on the other side of its bushy green hedges but inside all was peaceful. Above his head was a mosaic of leaves and sky, a few clouds, a few birds. All things he would never have noticed a few weeks ago. 

He didn’t believe like Credence did. He also didn’t hope or trust--not much, anyway. Certainly not before Grindelwald and, well, _during--_

Percy frowned; his thoughts halted and got stuck. _During_ was difficult to remember--not only because it was unpleasant but because the memories simply weren’t there. It was a strange feeling to search your own memory only to find a gaping void where something horrifyingly unforgettable should be.

_But surely,_ he thought, _there_ must _be something left behind. Some ragged edge, a torn thread--_ something _._

Without them he couldn’t learn the thing he really wanted to know: how did he survive those long dark months if he really had no belief, no hope, or no trust? How had he clung on at all? Had it been a stubborn unwillingness to give in? Maybe it had been nothing nobler than dumb luck. Maybe Grindelwald just hadn’t cared much what happened to him. 

He didn’t know; he really didn’t. Yet here he was, sitting right in the middle of his own better future, with the leaves and clouds and birds all whirling busily round above his head.

He couldn’t trust in anything. Except, there, now, coming across the green, green grass was a tall, slim figure.

_My Credence_ , he thought, all of a sudden. _There he is_. 

*

When they popped back into existence, right in the middle of Percy’s entrance hall, Credence couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. Percy’s apartment no longer made him feel nervous and out-of-place. In fact, it was more like coming home.

A lot of thoughts occurred to him all at once and he didn’t know where to begin. For instance, it seemed extremely important to ask Percy where wizards go when Apparating, in between the leaving and arriving, but he put that off for the present.

“It was a quiet Meeting today,” he said, as their coats magically took themselves off to the coat stand. “Nobody spoke much but I almost thought I could stand up and say something--I felt a pull but the words weren’t quite there. Maybe next time they will be.”

_Giddy_ , he thought. _That’s what this feeling is. Like I can’t properly catch my breath_. Caused by the sense of coming home, the rush of Apparating, the sight of Percy waiting for him in the park. And the quiet, sure peace of the meeting house.

“Maybe I really could,” he said, more to himself than Percy. “Do you think I could?”

Percy smiled and kissed him, gently but quite thoroughly. His fingers strayed into the ends of his hair; his closeness was something Credence wanted to sink into forever. 

But even that couldn’t stop him; the words kept coming and Percy listened. He listened while Credence made tea and he listened while plates were found for the doughnuts they’d bought from a street seller. 

“I don’t think I’m very good at explaining,” he said. “I don’t really understand it myself. But it’s so different there. You sit quietly and listen, and a peace comes over you. And you can see it in the others, too; they feel at peace as well.” 

They sat down. Percy poured himself some coffee and waited while Credence swallowed his mouthful of doughnut.

“It’s so different,” Credence said again. “It seems to _give_ , not take away.” 

The doughnuts were delicious; he remembered passing people eating them in the street, his own envious suspicion of their tempting sweetness. What a long time ago that seemed. He could remember Ma’s voice, hear her words, but could no longer feel the truth of them. What lies she’d told him, told everyone. As if God would forbid anyone the simple pleasure of a doughnut. 

“It took away so much,” he said, looking at his sugar-dusted fingers. “Between that and the Obscurus, I never felt there was anything of me left.”

Percy was watching him seriously. “Not anymore, sweetheart,” he said. “There seems to be more and more of you each day. And I can’t tell you how very glad I am about that.”

That was when Credence ran out of words. He simply sat and smiled at Percy, a great flood of joy rising and falling inside him.

Percy laughed softly and kissed Credence’s sweet-sticky fingers. “Careful you don’t give yourself a headache with all that sugar,” he said. And then: “Will you let me to take you to bed?”

_It should be wrong to think of that now_ , Credence thought. _Just back from church on a Sunday, and all that peace and beautiful stillness lying somewhere deep below this strange excitement_.

But it wasn’t wrong, because Percy’s eyes were warm and kind and full of want, all for him. Credence thought how warm his body would be, as well; warm and safe, also something like home. That was something else God didn’t forbid: love. In fact, Credence had learned, He encouraged it. More love in the world could never be a bad thing.

So, he smiled shyly and said, “Yes please, Mr Graves.” 


	12. Chapter 12

This time Credence was surprisingly prone to giggling. It was nerves, he supposed, now that he had knowledge of Percy’s hands and mouth and the things he could do with them. A _good_ kind of nervousness, light and effervescent and full of anticipation. 

Percy didn’t seem to mind--his kisses had been indulgent and he’d smiled at Credence’s laughter. Then had come the long, slow shuffle of undressing--and what an experience that had been, to unbutton and peel away each of Percy’s layers until he found heated skin underneath. Somehow they’d made it into bed, though Credence didn’t remember precisely how or when, and time had slowed to a lazy, loving crawl. Everything was unhurried, lingering; all their touches were soft and sure. Credence had been quite prepared to work to his climax exactly like that, with the hard ridge of Percy’s length nestled by his hip and Percy’s mouth sucking bruises into his neck. But Percy had other ideas.

He pulled away enough to roll Credence over onto his back. “There’s something I want to show you--something new we can try. It doesn’t have to be now but I want to make sure you know all the things we can do together.”

His face had become, to Credence’s thinking, excessively serious. He smiled easily up into it. “Are you going to lead me into sin, Mr Graves?”

To anyone else, Percy’s surprise would have looked quite forbidding. 

“That is what you mean, isn’t it?” Credence said. “I do know what sodomy is.”

“Oh, do you now?” said Percy, lifting his eyebrows comically high. “I wasn’t thinking of going so far as that today--but there is something similar I can show you.”

Recently, Credence had wondered about this; had tried and failed to imagine it. He’d only ever heard it mentioned in the same breath as hellfire and damnation, or in leering, jeering shouts from alleyways. He couldn’t square the thought of Percy doing… _that_ with any of those things.

“What does it feel like?” he asked. “Is it good?”

“Very,” Percy said. “Or at least I think so. But we only do it if you want to try and if you decide you don't like it, we stop.”

“Okay,” Credence said, nodding. “I think I want to try.”

“We'll start slow,” Percy said, shuffling down the bed to fit his shoulders between Credence's knees. “First of all, lubrication is needed, to make everything nice and slippery. I can do that without touching you, if you’re ready?”

It took a very small minute for Credence to understand. _Of course_ , he thought, _that would make it a lot easier. A lot,_ lot _easier_. “Okay,” he said again, this time with more determination.

Percy hardly moved. He just looked down deep between Credence’s thighs--which caused Credence to blush more than he’d ever done in his life--and mumbled a word under his breath and then Credence felt the strangest sensation. There was a spreading warmth somewhere deep _inside_ and a sudden wetness where his legs met.

“Not too cold?” Percy asked, looking for all the world like he was talking about the temperature of Credence’s bathwater.

“ _Oh_ ,” said Credence, and covered his face.

_Percy’s magic had been inside him_ , he thought _. Had touched him. Inside_. Credence tried to collect himself enough to speak, but the spot inside him seemed to grow warmer. _More ready,_ he thought, with a rush of heat to his cheeks.

“You okay?” Percy said. “If you don’t like it we ca--”

“No!” Credence said. “I mean-- I’m okay, I just--” He swallowed. “Please?”

Percy smiled. “So you want me to touch you there?” he asked, even though his face showed he already knew the answer.

Credence gulped in some badly-needed air. “Yes,” he said. “Please.”

Percy grinned. His hand slid from Credence’s hip and moved down between his legs. Gently, he pushed Credence’s knees up and opened his thighs wider, then something broad--probably his thumb--smoothed over him.

Credence yelped in surprise; his hips twitched. Percy hummed appreciatively and did it again, only a little firmer and slower. It drew a sound out of Credence, pitched somewhere between a moan and a gasp. He clutched at the sheets and stared with surprise at Percy.

The feeling of it was odd, to say the least. He was pretty sure it felt good but it was also like his body was waking from a deep slumber while simultaneously trying to learn a new trick. Similarly challenging was wrapping his mind around the knowledge of exactly what Percy was doing to him. He took a few deep breaths and focused on the shivery sparks washing up his spine as Percy gently rubbed back and forth. Once or twice, Credence sneaked a glance at him. He was focused, attentive to the movement of his hand; a continual slow slide over Credence’s wet sensitive skin.

Credence gave a little whimper and his hardness jerked in sympathy.

“That’s it,” Percy said, looking up with a broad grin. “Enjoying yourself?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Again, he mumbled something under his breath and wrapped his free hand around Credence’s cock to give it a loose tug. Soon it too was coated in a wonderful warm slickness. Percy’s palm moved easily over him, in a soft squeezing glide. Credence groaned and pushed up eagerly into his hand.

“That good, sweetheart?” Percy asked.

Credence sighed out another groan and let his head drop back against the pillows. They were approaching the blissful point when Percy became Mr Graves and Mr Graves became everything. It was a subtle boundary but Credence always knew when it was passed. Everything became much simpler; Credence was there to please and to be pleased in return, and there was nothing else he had to worry about.

Percy’s hand worked him a little faster and firmer and his finger continued to rub. A variety of liquid sounds reached Credence from below his waist and all the time he was vibrantly aware exactly how slick he was on the inside. Then it happened: Percy slipped the tip of one finger gently inside and then out again. Credence gasped, caught between wanting to push back and pull away. Percy pushed back in, a little deeper this time, and held there a moment longer. Credence could feel the tight stretch of his body around his finger; how eminently fragile he was.

“Mr Graves!” Credence's breath hitched, his stomach tensed. Mr Graves withdrew and stroked his belly soothingly. 

“For it to feel good, you've got to let it happen. You've got to relax. Understand?” he said.

“Yes,” nodded Credence breathlessly. “Like the Levitation charm.”

“Exactly like the Levitation charm.” Mr Graves settled further down between Credence’s legs and kissed the inside of his thigh. “If you're even half as talented at this, both of us are in for a very good time indeed.”

His fingers returned to the spot in question; they rubbed him lightly once more, then one pressed inwards, sliding and probing and gradually opening him up. Credence tried to do as he promised; tried to relax, tried to control his breathing, even though it felt very strange and not entirely pleasant.

“Good boy,” Mr Graves said, and made a little circling motion which had Credence scrabbling to grasp the sheets. “Such a quick learner.”

Credence met his eyes. Mr Graves looked wickedly tender, full of delight both at and for Credence. There was a flush across his cheeks and his eyes were dark and sparkling. That was when Credence forgot to be embarrassed; forgot entirely there was supposed to be shame in having a man touch him that way. He recognised how wonderful it was to be treated so carefully and so hungrily; how wonderful that someone could take so much pleasure from your own. He felt lucky, then. Lucky and very, very loved. 

Mr Graves did something with his hand: twisted it _just so_ and suddenly Credence couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. There was a buzzing in his veins; his spine felt like it was melting. His length jerked in Mr Graves’ grip; a single drop of clear fluid leaked slowly from its tip.

“A very quick learner,” Mr Graves said to himself, and his mouth was suddenly sucking away the fluid.

Credence made a loud noise and twined his fingers in the sheets; he knew his end was very close. 

And he was right: Mr Graves was quite, quite merciless. He swallowed Credence’s length like it was nothing, laved at him with his tongue, twisted his finger so it rubbed over and over that magical spot. Before Credence even knew what was happening he was squirming and gasping, pushing back against his hand, and finally spilling deep into Mr Graves’ mouth. 

When he opened his eyes he was still panting, exhilarated; spread-eagled across the bed like a great crashing wave had thrown him onto a soft, sun-warmed beach.

Mr Graves raised himself up and wiped at his mouth. Credence knew he was staring but couldn’t help it. Mr Graves had done that to him before, with his mouth; had insisted he liked it and Credence had no reason to doubt his sincerity. But, though it fascinated him, Credence hadn’t been able to find the courage to try it.

Mr Graves crawled up to hover over Credence. “Mind if I kiss you?” he asked.

Credence smiled and shook his head. “I don’t mind,” he said, wondering if his lips had been so red and wet and swollen when he’d sucked on Mr Graves’ fingers.

His arms came up around Mr Graves’ neck. The taste of Mr Graves’ mouth was not so different than usual--salty, a little more bitter, maybe. Mr Graves kissed him leisurely, which was quite at odds with the hard length nudging into Credence’s stomach.

Credence pulled back from his kiss. “Let me,” he said, reaching down. “Let me?”

Both his hands found Mr Graves’ length; he touched tentatively, cradled it between his palms. Mr Graves groaned and shifted to allow Credence more space. He said nothing, just watched Credence while his chest heaved silently with his pleasure.

_This is a cock_ , Credence thought to himself, with a sudden thrill of freedom. _I am touching another man’s cock._ Its heat was shocking as the word echoing in his mind; it jerked rigidly in his hand. _I’m going to make him-- He’s going to--_

“Can I--?” Credence started. “I want to try…”

Mr Graves blinked, but Credence saw him understand. He moved onto his back so Credence could settle between his knees, exactly as Mr Graves had done to him. 

He didn’t ask Mr Graves for help this time. Credence knew what he wanted to do. He wrapped the fingers of both hands around the base and leant close. The scent was musky, salty. He opened his mouth a little more and pressed the flat of his tongue to the ridge below the head. Mr Graves groaned and drew his knees up restlessly.

“Mercy Lewis,” Mr Graves said, running his fingers lightly along Credence’s jaw. “You look so good right now, sweetheart, you have no idea.”

“Shall I keep going?” Credence asked.

“Yes, yes-- _hex it, yes_ ,” Mr Graves said. “Just-- I’m close.”

Credence nodded and took hold of him again, enjoying the heavy thickness between his fingers. He put his mouth back to the head and licked; it was soft and slick under his tongue, the taste heady and animal. And his bravery thrilled him--that, and the feeling of Mr Graves’ urgent need, quivering and desperate and all for him. Credence had the power to make him feel good; to show him precisely what a good boy he was.

With more vigour and determination, he sucked lightly at the tip, tongued the fleshy ridge, and stroked Mr Graves’ shaft up and down with both hands. Mr Graves groaned wordlessly--a sound Credence couldn’t help but answer with his own. And when Mr Graves tensed underneath him, Credence didn’t need any warning--he knew, now, how Mr Graves took his pleasure. He pulled back to stroke him fast and watched, enthralled, as Mr Graves spilled over his hand.

A couple of smaller spurts slid back down his shaft--Credence studied one at length before he dipped his head to taste it. The flavour was strong and sharp but he thought he could get used it.

He must’ve said it out loud because Mr Graves gave a defeated groan and said, exhausted, “Darling-- _sweet boy_ \--you’re going to kill me if you say things like that _now_.”

After that, they settled under the sheets together. Mr Graves was asleep almost immediately but Credence didn’t mind at all. He nestled his head onto his breastbone, and Mr Graves murmured drowsily, “That’s right, my love. Back where you belong.”

Credence smiled to himself, burrowed closer, and fell asleep thinking how that was the most wonderful, improbable thing he’d ever been called.

*

Credence woke with a confused start. He’d been dreaming about the mooncalves again; Newt had gone to fetch their feed but that seemed a long time ago. Credence had been standing there, waiting for him to return, for ages. Where was he? Was something be wrong?

Something was, he knew, but he just couldn’t fix on what. Newt and the mooncalves might be just a dream but reality was proving a stubborn thing to call back. He struggled with it for a moment, then sat up and immediately realised what bothering him: Percy wasn’t there.

He examined the empty space beside him. The sheets had lost their warmth completely and were cool to the touch. They hadn’t been flung aside, either, but carefully replaced and smoothed out.

Credence lay down again and listened. There was no movement, no sound at all from the apartment, only the faint restlessness of the city outside. No faucet was running, no cupboard was being opened or closed. No light showed from under the bathroom door. Wherever Percy was and whatever he was doing, he was being very quiet about it.

He had no idea of the time--Percy’s bedroom lacked a clock--but Credence knew it was late. The kind of late when daytime things faded almost completely away and there was only darkness left to contemplate. He thought about all the reasons Percy had to wake in the night and what the darkness might say to him when he did. Then he swung his legs out of bed and, wrapped in a sheet, went to find him.

Percy was in the sitting room, lit by the soft glow of a table lamp, with a glass of something amber at his elbow. He was lost in thought until he saw Credence. 

“I tried not to disturb you,” he said, rubbing his face. “Go back to bed, I’ll be there soon.”

Credence steadily took in his pale complexion, the slight tremor in his hand. The way his other lingered on his bad leg. “I don’t mind,” he said. “I can sit up with you for a while.”

Percy frowned. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow,” he said. “You need your sleep.”

“I’ve had a lot already,” Credence said. “And I’ll have more soon.” He paused and pulled the sheet tighter around himself. “If you’d rather be on your own, I’ll understand. Just tell me what you need.”

Percy’s frown grew deeper and a lot more complex. He picked up his glass and drained it. “No point you being up as well as me,” he said, with a grimace. “But if you insist.”

“So you want me to stay?” Credence said uncertainly.

Percy rubbed his face again. “Stay,” he said, in a much softer tone, and reached out a hand. “Please.”

Credence took it. “You’re cold,” he said. And then, when Percy didn’t say anything else, folded himself up to sit in Percy’s lap.

There was quite of bit of arranging his sheets and getting comfortable to do, and then after that there was silence. Percy’s chest rose and fell in a soothing rhythm, and Credence’s soon followed suit. He was starting to doze by the time Percy spoke, several minutes later.

“Before, when I said I’d leave with you--I meant it,” he said. “I said it without thinking, but I do mean it and I would.”

Credence didn’t really know what to say to that so he just wrapped his arms round Percy’s chest and huddled closer.

Percy’s fingers carded through his hair, then settled on his nape. “I mean it,” he repeated. “I have this new sense of how fragile everything is. How easy it is to lose good things. I don’t want to lose you through my own stupid shortcomings.”

“Is that what kept you awake?” Credence asked. “You think you’re going to lose me somehow?” The idea was incredible, he nearly couldn’t believe it.

“I don’t know,” Percy said gruffly. “I just know you’re the only thing I can believe in and I can’t let _all this_ ”--he gestured around them, at himself, the room, the dark and wakeful night--“drive you away.”

Credence gazed at him open-mouthed. “But it’s not going to,” he said. “It can’t. It’s why I’m here at all. Or had you forgotten?”

Percy stared back, face unreadable.

“The New York Branch of the Gellert Grindelwald Survivors’ Group,” Credence said. “Membership: two. Remember?”

Percy gave a strange half-laugh. He rubbed his forehead with one hand and looked away, across the room. “Should I be thanking him for bringing us together, I wonder? Sure he didn’t expect that to be happened to me.”

There was another long pause where Percy didn’t speak or meet Credence’s eyes, and the tender places in Credence’s heart hurt while he watched him struggle silently with things he couldn’t say. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything about it, you know,” Credence said, after a moment. “You can if you want but… Only if you want to.”

Percy sighed. “That’s just it--I can’t remember anything.” This time he held Credence’s gaze and Credence saw it was true. “There was a duel and then there was an infirmary--each was about three months apart and there’s very little in between. Only a few leftovers--nightmares, silly fears about nothing, things like that.” 

Credence tried to keep back the tears filling his eyes but couldn’t. He didn’t know if it was better or worse that Percy couldn’t remember anything, but to think that whatever had happened to him had lasted a _whole three months_. And Percy was so brave about it.

“Hey, come on--no need for that,” Percy said, thumbing away an escaped tear. “I don’t want you being upset or thinking about it when you shouldn’t have to. It’s gone, it’s over, there’s nothing anyone can do about it now.”

Credence wiped his eyes. “It’s not over, though,” he said. “There’s a bit of you still living it or you wouldn’t be sitting here now. I know I can’t do much to help but I can do what you’ve done for me.”

“But I haven’t done anything,” Percy said. “Taught you some magic, bought you a few clothes? Fed you, on occasion? At least I made you smile more than I made you cry.”

“No,” Credence said, shaking his head. “I mean, you’ve just… Been there. Everything feels better when you’re there. Like this.” 

He hugged Percy tightly, pulling him as close as he could against his chest. After a short, stunned silence, Percy reciprocated. His arms fastened around Credence’s shoulders and he held on like a drowning man.

“You made me happy when I thought I was never going to feel happy about anything, ever,” Credence whispered. “Even before you kissed me.”

Percy’s grip grew tighter. He took an uneven breath in. “Half the time,” he said, “I feel like I don’t really exist. The rest of the time is when I’m with you.”

Credence nodded awkwardly, bumping his chin against Percy’s shoulder; he knew what that felt like. 

“I think even before,” Percy said, “something wasn’t right. Maybe it was the war, I don’t know. There’s been so little in my life which hasn’t been work, and now there’s you, and--” He broke off, took another shaky breath. “Everything that has you in it is good and I want to keep it.”

Credence nodded again, because he understood this too. But he said, “I don’t think I’m as good as all that. I’ve done a lot of things I need forgiveness for.”

Percy jerked his head back and peered at Credence with narrowed eyes. “Is that what they told you at church today?” 

His fierceness almost made Credence laugh. “No, it doesn’t work like that there,” he said. “It’s just something that’s true--it’s between me and God and no one else.”

“Hmmn,” Percy said, glowering quite dangerously and clearly not believing a word of it.

“It’s like us,” Credence went on. “I couldn’t get used to the idea that it’s not sinful in the magical world so I asked myself what He must think of it. That’s what I thought about at the meeting today and all I could picture was warm spring sunshine after an endless winter. That’s between me and God as well. No one else.”

This seemed to soothe Percy a little. He took Credence’s hand gently. “You know you can’t go back there again, don’t you?” he said. “Especially if tomorrow goes well.”

“I know,” Credence said sadly. “We’re not allowed to fraternise, are we? With anyone.”

Percy frowned. “That’s the way it has to be,” he said. “We have to stay secret to keep everyone safe.”

Credence bit his lip. “Modesty,” he said. “I know she won’t be able to remember me but I wish I could’ve said goodbye. Though I don’t know if she would’ve wanted me to, after what I did.” The heaviness of his guilt swelled up in a queasy wave and he wiped his eyes again. “See?” he said. “So many things I need forgiveness for.”

Percy frowned again, more unhappily, and touched his cheek. “There’s a few of us who believe like you,” he said. “Until then, you’ve got your book, haven’t you?”

Percy meant his Bible; Credence smiled at his odd phrasing and nodded. 

“Well then, after tomorrow we’ll find you a good magical church. I mean, I don’t know of any personally but there must be _one_ you can go to.” 

“And after tomorrow,” Credence said, “you have to stop worrying so much. As long as I’ve got you, I’ll be okay. And I will have you, won’t I?”

Percy took a deep breath in and grasped the hand Credence had curled against his chest. “Yes, sweetheart,” he said. “You most certainly will. No matter what, I promise.”


	13. Chapter 13

Credence’s confidence had deserted him by the next morning. They’d woken at the crack of dawn, still on the couch, wrapped in Credence’s sheet and Percy’s dressing gown. Once it had become obvious that that was all the sleep they were going to have, there was nothing else to do but get up and face the day.

They were lingering in Percy’s sitting room, partly putting off the inevitable and partly killing time. Percy was trying hard not to pace, but it was difficult.

“What time is it? Are you sure we shouldn’t leave?” Credence said, looking like he’d rather do anything else. “I don’t want to be late for Madam Picquery.”

“Plenty of time, don’t worry,” Percy said.

Credence nodded forlornly and went back to his silent contemplation of his knees.

Percy joined him on the couch and rubbed circles on his back. “It’ll be over soon. And I’m going to be there with you the whole time.”

“What if it doesn’t go well, though?” Credence said, chewing his lip. “What happens then? Will I get another chance?”

“I don’t know,” said Percy, wishing he’d mustered some convincing lies for this conversation. “But I am fully prepared to have an enormous argument if I don’t like the answer.”

Credence looked more hopeful and just a touch disbelieving. 

“An absolutely enormous argument,” Percy repeated. “Ragingly, toweringly huge. You’ve no idea what a monstrous tantrum I can throw when I’m in the mood. People will think your Obscurus is at it again.”

That did it--a grin cracked across Credence’s face. But it soon faltered. “I just want to belong somewhere,” he said. “That’s all.”

Percy drew him into his arms. “I know,” he said. “You do. You will. I promise.”

*

It was probably a good thing they were so early. There was hardly anyone around when they entered MACUSA--Percy couldn’t imagine what it would have been like had a hundred faces all turned in their direction. Credence had gone white enough as it was.

At least he looked the part. As well as his new suit, he was wearing a coat--a new one recently arrived from Rubinacci’s and rather selfishly bought without asking him first. He’d worn a very reproachful, very lovely expression when Percy had given it to him, which only made Percy determined to do it again. And now, seeing Credence properly dressed and in the heart of wizarding America, Percy was sure he’d done the right thing. The more Credence looked like a born wizard today, the better.

“I know where they’ll want us,” Percy said, setting off across the atrium. Naturally, Seraphina’s note had not specified. “Better wait down there, far from prying eyes.”

Credence nodded and scurried after him. Already he was tense and hunched, glancing fearfully up at the regal portrait of Seraphina as they passed beneath it. Percy did the same. She seemed to look right at them--right _through_ them--and for the first time he understood how the junior Aurors must feel.

They took the elevator right down to the very bottom of the building. The shutters slid open with a decisive _clang_ to reveal a long, dark corridor dimly lit by the atrium many storeys above. It looked like every other corridor in the building--almost. Here, there was a thick magical tang in the air and correctly trained senses could detect that the locking spells on the doors were intended to keep things in, rather than the reverse.

Credence made a little sound when he recognised it. Percy pressed his shoulder gently.

“This was where they kept me,” Credence said, peering into the dimness. He took a step forward, then another, and began slowly walking down the corridor. Percy followed, a pace behind.

There were few distinguishing marks to tell where they were; no signs or room numbers. But, after a few moments, Credence stopped dead outside a closed door.

“I think it was here,” he said. “I remember exactly how the footsteps echoed outside.” He walked up and down a few times with a slow, measured pace, listening. “There were always footsteps,” he explained, as if Percy didn’t know the custody patrol protocols backwards. As if he hadn’t written them himself. “They went up and down all day and all night. At first I couldn’t sleep because of the sound but after a while I got used it. Like a ticking clock in the dark.”

Percy stared at him for a moment. _A ticking clock in the dark._ Cold pricked along his spine.

When he spoke, he found his voice was hoarse. “I can probably open it if you want to look inside? Maybe it’ll set a few ghosts to rest.”

Credence frowned unhappily at the door. His old frightened posture had returned, complete with downturned mouth and sad, sad eyes. He clenched his fists and gave a tight nod.

All it took was a click of Percy’s fingers--as he’d suspected, Leach had forgotten to strip him of his clearance levels. _Outrageous._ Percy pushed it open and checked the room was empty.

It was. And it was tiny. A washbasin in front of the door and a narrow cot by the wall. Bare stone walls and floor. Percy held himself still, afraid he was going to lash out at something. And, really, that cot seemed extraordinarily flimsy; a splendid candidate just waiting to be set alight. The thought of his lovely sweet boy sleeping in it, alone and frightened, not knowing what was happening to him; it was easily enough provocation.

He leaned against the wall and raged, silently and with perfect composure, while Credence looked slowly round. 

In that room, the facts were inescapable: it was his fault Credence had been held in this manner. No matter how understandable or mitigating the circumstances were, it had been down to him. The rules he’d written and the orders he’d drummed into his staff had done it. Percy was responsible and that couldn’t be undone. It occurred to him then that Credence wasn’t the only one who needed forgiveness.

It also occurred to Percy that Credence was in danger of returning there, should the Committee decide he didn’t belong after all. He gripped his wand, still in its pocket, and thought about what he might do then. How much had he changed since he’d last been in charge?

Credence had halted at the foot of the bed. He touched a corner of the rough, faded blanket. “It was only a few weeks ago,” he said. “I feel like I’m looking at memories dredged up from the bottom of the sea.”

Percy peeled himself off the wall and went to stand beside him. He put an arm gently to his waist. “You were traumatised.” His voice was still hoarse. “Maybe you still are. It does things to the memory.”

“Right,” Credence said, frowning slightly. “I suppose it does.” And he took Percy’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly. 

Percy stared down at his hand and then at the boy next to him. Understanding trickled into his mind like droplets of shining light.

He didn’t know whom he was more shocked at--Credence for understanding so easily or himself for being so blind. Some of his more scattered thoughts clicked neatly into line and the conclusion they pointed to was far less dramatic than the one he’d assumed was true. It was both a relief and a disappointment. But, at the very least, he finally had some answers to go with his nightmares.

“You’re right, you know,” he said, squeezing Credence’s hand just as tightly. “A ticking clock does sound a lot like footsteps.” He paused and recalled the noise. “Like someone pacing back and forth.”

Credence was silent for a moment, before pressing into his side. “Whatever happens,” he said, “at least we’re not coming back here.”

“No,” Percy said, with renewed determination to make sure of that. “This is behind us. I’m behind you. And we’ll work out the rest.”

*

They made their way silently back down the corridor, towards the elevator and then beyond it, in the opposite direction to the one they’d first taken. Here, the ceiling was a little less looming and the wall lamps were lit. An open archway took them into another, much grander, corridor, panelled in rich wood with touches of gilt. At its end was an antechamber with three doors--two set close together on one wall and the third squarely in the centre of the other.

“In here,” Percy said, gesturing at the third. “They may already be seated.”

There was a hastily-muffled noise behind them. Percy whipped round, wand out. A piece of the wall appeared to swell and blister, then something stumbled clumsily out of the shadows.

“Goldstein.” Percy put away his wand and strode over to her. Goldstein was dusting herself down and trying, ineffectually, to hide the Invisibility Cloak behind her back. “Surely you know better than to borrow illegal artifacts from the Confiscation Room?”

“Sorry, sir,” she said. “I know. But I was desperate--I found out about Credence’s review by accident and there’s no other way I can get in.”

Credence appeared at his side. He tried to peer round Goldstein to see what she was holding. “What is it?” he asked. “How you were able to hide like that?”

“An Invisibility Cloak,” she said, bringing it out sheepishly. “Which I definitely should not have borrowed from the Confiscation Room.”

Credence took it reverentially from her and studied it with bright fascination. “I knew there must a way to become invisible,” he said. “I knew it!”

“Want to use it to escape? I won’t tell if Mr Graves doesn’t,” she smiled. 

Percy huffed. “There are other ways of becoming invisible and very few of them will work effectively enough here,” he said. “Don’t go filling his head with cheap parlour tricks. And, no, he doesn’t want to escape--he’s going to be fine.”

Credence wasn’t listening--he was making his hand disappear and reappear over and over. 

“He’ll do great,” Percy said, nodding approvingly. “I know it.” 

Goldstein followed Percy’s gaze to Credence, then flicked her eyes back at Percy. She had that look on her face again; the suspicious, well-trained Auror-y look Percy preferred to be directed elsewhere. 

He cleared his throat. “Goldstein, if you’re coming in, you’d better come with us. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and Credence helped her on with the cloak. He watched, awestruck, as she vanished with a shimmer.

Percy didn’t spoil it by explaining that, with a little serious study, the eye could be trained to spot the edges as the wearer moved, and that once that happened the spell unravelled for the beholder. Often the problem was an imperfectly cast Bedazzling Hex--though he couldn’t say for sure it was the case with this one, without time to examine it more closely.

He went in first--that way, when heads turned, he took the brunt of the Committee’s inevitable curiosity. And there was plenty of it. Silence fell as soon as he opened the doors; a couple of the more junior staff craned their necks to get a better view.

All of them were there; everyone who sat on the Magical Law Enforcement Executive Committee, the very same one Percy used to head. Twelve members taken from across the Department, all Heads of their respective areas, plus Astrella Bronwyn, Legal Counsel, and Emeryth White, Special Advisor in International Relations. They were seated along a row of heavy wooden tables, quills and parchment laid out ready. Naturally, Cromwell Leach was placed in the very centre. And Seraphina was conspicuous only by her absence--she would arrive when it was time to begin and not a moment before.

To give Goldstein enough time to slip inside, Percy held the door for Credence. He’d fallen ominously quiet, cowed by the presence of so many watchful witches and wizards. The atmosphere didn’t help, either; the room itself was a cavernous, cold and formidable despite the soft golden light which filled it.

Percy pointedly turned his back to the row of interrogative faces and steered Credence carefully over to a pair of chairs in a far corner. Their footsteps followed, echoing in an uncomfortable manner, and--if one listened carefully enough--not quite in sync, either. Percy hoped for Goldstein’s sake no one else was paying attention to such details. 

Credence sat down slowly, a little wobbly around the knees. Percy took the seat next to him; his leg was aching now, with great shooting pains stabbing through his thigh. Until recently he would’ve tried to hide it, unwilling to show anything which might be construed as weakness. Instead, he stretched his leg out and massaged it with the heel of his palm. _Hex them all_ , he thought. _I don’t care what they think anymore._

Credence gave him a worried glance.

“I’m okay,” Percy said. “It’s starting to feel better. You can always rub it later tonight, if you want?” And cocked a brow at him.

Credence’s eyes widened; he looked scandalised, and thoroughly delighted about it. _Good_ , thought Percy. _That’s given him something else to think about._

A sudden displacement of air by his left shoulder told him he’d forgotten about Goldstein--presumably he’d also just given _her_ something else to think about. But he decided he didn’t really care about that, either. She was going to find out sooner or later, if she didn’t know already.

Then came Seraphina’s arrival. The door opened gracefully, as if held by invisible attendants, and in she swept. Percy caught himself thinking how unnecessary it was--more suitable to semi-formal state occasion than a private meeting of the Executive. But that was unfair, he knew. The office was not an easy one to uphold and appearances needed to kept up.

She stood at the head of the room and addressed the line of faces.

“Welcome, all,” she began. “And thank you for your prompt attendance. I know everyone here is keenly aware we need a decisive conclusion to what has proved a delicate and unusual matter.”

Here she paused and took stock of those present. When her gaze reached Percy it halted; she fixed him with an inscrutable look.

“I trust you are all up to speed with the reports Mr Graves has prepared. At the conclusion of today’s panel, I will ask you to convene with the aim of agreeing a common path forward, along with recommendations for Mr Barebo--”

She broke off. There was an unmistakably loud rustle behind Percy--almost as if someone had ducked behind his chair. 

Seraphina’s eyes narrowed, focused on a point next to Percy’s elbow. “Ms Goldstein,” she said. “I think you’d better explain yourself.”

“I told you so,” Percy said quietly over his shoulder, and stood up.

Slowly, the cloak slipped off and revealed Goldstein’s guilty head. The rest of her followed a few moments later, still crouched behind his chair. Like an extremely predictable Greek chorus, the Committee gasped in unison.

Percy turned to face Seraphina. “She’s not doing any harm,” he said, feeling rather tired. “Let her stay. She deserves to be here as much as anyone.”

Seraphina’s eyes narrowed a little further. Percy stepped into the centre of the room and she came forward to meet him. There was a flicker of something in her eye which he hadn’t seen in a long time--it could have been mischief but it could also have been murder. 

In a low voice, she said, “Is this the Percival Graves who once charmed the Magical Security Operational Procedures Manual to follow a Senior Auror around for a week and quote assorted segments every time he opened his mouth--all because he filed a Class 2 Section B with incomplete paperwork?”

Percy sighed inwardly. So this was how it was going to be. He crossed his arms and stared her down.

She swung her gaze over to Credence, who was looking very pale. Goldstein was stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, chewing her lip.

Serapina glanced once more at Percy. “Very well,” she said. “If Mr Barebone consents, that is?”

Credence’s eyes went wide. He nodded fervently.

“Then let us begin.”

*

“Mr Graves’ reports tell us that you’ve been getting along better than anticipated without a wand,” said Madam Picquery. “Is that correct?”

Credence tried very hard not to twist his hands in his lap. A chair had been summoned for him; he now sat right in the very middle of the room, before what seemed a never-ending line of looming faces. The light was too bright. And it was hard to focus on any one of them; they seemed to cluster together into one hungry mass.

He swallowed. “Yes,” he said. “At least I think so.”

“Would you care to demonstrate for us?” Madam Picquery asked. “Just something small.”

Credence glanced behind him to Percy, still sitting grimly in the corner. He nodded encouragingly.

It was easier to think without seeing all those eyes staring at him, so he closed his own and tried to picture the scene before him. There was a quill lying unused in front of the portly man seated opposite--Credence had noticed this because, unlike the others, he hadn’t taken any notes. He thought he might hate the sound of quills scratching over paper even more than the staring eyes.

He didn’t trust himself to speak the words well enough, so he thought them instead. Then he opened his eyes, looked decisively at the quill, and made the calm authoritative gesture he’d seen Percy make hundreds of times. The quill rose up in the air and hovered before the man’s nose. 

There was a suppressed murmur in the room; the quills scratched a little more fervently. The man whose quill it was gave a chuckle, plucked it from the air, and examined it as if he’d never seen it before.

“Thank you,” Madam Picquery said, in a manner which left Credence in considerable doubt as to whether his performance had been good or bad. “And what else have you learned?”

“Um,” Credence stumbled. “A-- A few things. Mainly charms. Some transfiguration.”

“Transfiguration?” Madam Picquery’s eyebrows climbed almost into her headdress. “That is rather advanced, especially without a wand. Do you find it difficult?”

“Yes,” Credence said, honestly. “Mr Graves wouldn’t be satisfied if I found it easy.”

Madam Picquery made a sympathetic sound. “And you’ve worked hard to meet his standards, haven’t you?”

A hot prickle of embarrassment slid down his spine. “Yes,” he said, and wished it didn’t sound like an admission of something much greater. 

Madam Picquery gave him a short, considering look. Credence wasn’t sure if such a thing was possible, but it seemed like she was smiling without actually wearing a smile.

“Thank you, Mr Barebone, for answering our questions,” she said. “We may have more, later, but first I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

A man detached himself from the crowd of faces. He was tall and very thin, with large pale eyes which stared solemnly out at Credence. In his hand was a small battered briefcase, not unlike the one Newt carried.

“This is Mr Dowsell,” Madam Picquery said. “An expert in wandlore who has been studying your case. We’d like to try you out with a few more wands to see if there’s been any improvement since you began your study with Mr Graves.”

A table was summoned to the head of the room; a cloth floated over it and settled smoothly down. Mr Dowsell laid his briefcase on top and opened it with a snap. The Committee rearranged itself so it could see better; even Madam Picquery took a seat with them and gave Mr Dowsell her full attention.

One by one, Mr Dowsell retrieved a selection of wands from the briefcase and lay them out on the table. An expectant silence fell. Then, Credence was beckoned over.

A noise at the back of the room startled everyone: Percy had stood up. There followed a slow and measured _tap, clunk, tap, clunk_ as he came closer. When he reached the table he summoned his chair, placing it in full view of the proceedings and directly opposite the Committee. Then he sat down again and crossed his arms, glaring first at Madam Picquery and then at Mr Dowsell.

Mr Dowsell appeared untroubled by this performance but Credence felt much better. With Mr Dowsell in front and the panel to his left, he’d almost been surrounded. And it wasn’t that he hadn’t believed Percy when he’d said he was on Credence’s side, but it was a very different kind of believing when he could see it with his own two eyes.

Silence fell again. When Mr Dowsell finally spoke, it was to address the Committee rather than Credence.

“Mr Barebone’s case has presented many interesting points,” he said. The Committee shuffled a little, leaning forward in expectation. “I have a theory regarding the reactions of the wands already tested, and today I will be undertaking some further tests. In front of me I have a carefully selected assortment of wands from different makers.”

Mr Dowsell paused to fastidiously neaten the line they made. When he was finished, he said, “If you would please step up here, Mr Barebone.”

Credence’s courage had dipped considerably since Mr Dowsell had laid out the wands. He remembered all too well how this had gone last time--with several shocked faces and the smell of smouldering charcoal. He tried not to let his hesitation show as he stood beside the table. 

“Now,” Mr Dowsell said, as though he were giving a lecture, “it’s my belief that Mr Barebone’s magic is of a curious variety. Correspondence with fellow experts and my own recent study into Obscurials have led me to conclude that Mr Barebone’s magic has not been _warped_ by the presence of an Obscurus, as some have theorised, but that it was sufficiently unusual to begin with. It has certainly robbed him of the opportunity to learn magic properly but, as we have all seen today, he has made impressive strides to overcome that.

“A complicating factor has been that his magic is far more powerful than we might have expected in one who was able to conceal it for so long. In addition to the evidence of our own eyes, I see no other way it would have been possible to survive the development of an Obscurus for so long. In fact, here, I might go so far as to speculate that eventually, and left untreated, Mr Barebone may have been able to master the Obscurus and let it out at will.”

There was a rumbling murmur from the Committee, which subsided when Mr Dowsell continued.

“Unfortunately for him, this implies that Mr Barebone may struggle to find a wand which suits him at all. Simply put, the wands previously tried were not able to channel his particular brand of magic sufficiently--so much so, that they crumpled under the strain.”

Credence’s heart sank utterly at these words. He’d been right all along--he really was a freak. He couldn’t even find a place among his own kind. He stole a glance at Percy--looking fierce but calm, though the white-knuckled grip on his cane suggested otherwise--and his misery increased by a few degrees.

But Mr Dowsell was still talking and Credence realised he’d missed much of it. He recalled the feeling of Percy drawing circles on his back and tried to concentrate. This was his only chance. He had to try. He couldn’t give into despair.

“And finally,” Mr Dowsell was saying, “I’ve brought along two of the more common kinds of wand already tested--one Dragon heartstring and one Wampus hair--to throw more clearly into relief the effect of Mr Barebone’s recent magical training. As I said before, I believe this will be negligible, and that there will be much the same result as before. This is where we will begin.”

Mr Dowsell now swung his attention towards Credence, holding out the first of the wands to him.

“Have you been taught the Wand-Lighting spell?” he asked. When Credence nodded, he said, “Then please perform it for us now.” 

Credence took the wand gingerly--Dragon heartstring, so Mr Dowsell said. It was very plain, with little of the personality he’d seen in other wands. In fact, it was hard for him to believe it was a magical object at all--it felt just like holding an ordinary stick of wood. But, when he gathered his intentions to perform the magic, Credence felt it. There was a strange tug, not really a bodily one but still situated somewhere between his heart and his stomach--an odd sensation of something not being quite right.

Even before he said the incantation Credence sensed it would go badly. It was the wand; without understanding how he knew, he could tell it was unwilling. But what choice did he have but to perform the spell?

“ _Lumos_ ,” he said, and the wand didn’t even put up a fight. It simply shrivelled up, beginning at the tip, ash dropping to the floor in clumps. When it reached his fingers, he yanked his hand away from its smouldering heat. The stub was ash before it even touched the floor.

All the blood drained from his face and, along with it, the last dregs of a hope he hadn’t realised he’d depended on. His learning hadn’t worked. Percy had been wrong. He had something broken, on the inside. Mr Dowsell had said so: he’d been born with it.

Instinctively, he met Percy’s eyes and found concern there; concern and doubt. Only for a second, before he hid it--but it had been there. Percy knew too, now, what Credence had always known. And what would that mean for Credence?

Mr Dowsell was addressing the panel again, over Credence’s bowed head. “--as expected,” he finished. “And now this one, please, Mr Barebone, if you would be so kind.”

Credence took it automatically, miserably. There was no way out of this--he would have to endure his public humiliation to the end. 

Dimly, he heard Mr Dowsell describing the wand to his audience. Only snatches of it reached Credence--he didn’t understand why it mattered, anyway. _Sugar maple-- Wampus hair-- Good all-rounder._ His voice blurred into noise as Credence considered the wand. This one showed its character straight away, before he even had any intention of using it for magic. It was warm between his fingers and, when Credence raised it, gave a slight vibration. But he didn’t hold out any hope it welcomed his magic.

Mr Dowsell nodded to him, and Credence tried again. “ _Lumos._ ” 

Nothing happened for a couple of seconds. Then there was a loud, sharp noise and the wand exploded, sending splinters of wood in all directions. 

When Credence dropped the arm shielding his face, he caught Percy’s shocked expression. He was half out of his seat and had drawn breath to say something.

But Mr Dowsell spoke first, looking entirely unperturbed. “Well, well,” he said, brushing a stray piece of wand off the front of his robes. “If anything, the reaction of these wands to Mr Barebone has grown _more_ severe, not less.”

Credence’s shoulders slumped. To his right, Percy put his head in his hands.

“Which brings me to the second thrust of my argument,” said Mr Dowsell. “I believe I have demonstrated effectively the _power_ of Mr Barebone’s magic, so now let us turn our attention to its _unusual quality._ ” He stared unblinkingly down at the four remaining wands and rearranged them to his satisfaction. “Unusual magic,” he said, “calls for an unusual wand.”

There was a pause; chairs creaked as the panel craned their necks to get a better view.

“I am not expecting any of these to be a true match for Mr Barebone,” he continued. “But I hope to see rather more promising signs. Indeed, if we can simply leave a wand intact at the end of the experiment, that would be something to write to the Wandlore Society about, would it not?” 

A smattering of laughter came from Credence’s left. Nothing at all came from his right; it was deathly silent.

“Here we have a small selection, based on my prior knowledge of Mr Barebone--pine and Thunderbird tail feather, acacia and Phoenix feather, yew and Veela hair, and finally willow and Rougarou hair.” Mr Dowsell held each one aloft as he spoke. “I think, judging by what we’ve seen today, we will try them in that order.” 

Even Credence found himself leaning in to examine them more closely. They were beautiful. Each was different--different kinds of wood, some carved, some inlaid, some long, some short. Percy was leaning forward, too. His chin rested on his hand in a thoughtful pose. Tina had crept up to sit with him; the fingers of one hand were pressed to her mouth and she wore a pensive frown.

“In your own time, Mr Barebone,” said Mr Dowsell.

Credence picked up the first wand--it was bleached in colour and rather twisted, reminiscent of a slim piece of polished driftwood. 

“We’ve already heard how Mr Barebone seems to have a natural affinity for Transfiguration,” Mr Dowsell said. “So it will be interesting to see how he gets on with a Thunderbird core.”

Credence braced himself. “ _Lumos_.”

The effect was instant--the tip of the wand didn’t light up, but the room did. A great bright light filled it, one which seemed to have no source. There followed a horrible cracking noise; it sounded like the air had vent in two. Credence grasped his wand hand; the wand clattered to the floor and rolled away. It remained unharmed but his palm now yielded a great red weal. The wand had fought back, burning him rather than be destroyed itself.

Credence whimpered; tears pricked his eyes. He fell to his knees. The silence in the room was deafening, or maybe it was the roaring in his head blotting out everything else. Slowly the room dimmed, darkening further and passing into twilight shadow. The air grew close and still, and seemed to gather like an approaching storm. There was a crackling electrical hum, catching at his skin and the ends of his hair.

Hurried footsteps approached him; there was an arm around his waist, and then a hand stroked his hair. The strange gloom flickered and brightened again, gradually returning to normal.

Percy gently took hold of his injured hand. His frown was deep and fierce and directed away from Credence. 

“What in Morrigan’s name are you trying to do?” he thundered. He ignored Mr Dowsell entirely, focusing all of his rage at Madam Picquery. “You’re making a damned sideshow spectacle out of this! For the love of Salem, surely these tests could be performed without causing him injury!?”

In the shocked stillness, the air rang with Percy’s voice. Some of the Committee looked angry, some chastened. Even Tina, hovering a few paces behind Percy, was white-faced and silent. She kept glancing at the ceiling, as afraid if it might collapse at any moment.

But Madam Picquery was as composed as ever. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve heard that particular tone of voice,” she said. “Welcome back, Percy. But I strongly suggest you keep any further outbursts for after the conclusion of the session.”

Credence got up from his knees. His hand still hurt, but now the shock had worn off he found it was not as bad as he’d feared. And Percy had rushed over, ready to protect and defend. 

He touched Percy’s elbow. “I’m okay,” he said. “Really.”

Percy scowled. “I won’t allow this to go on any longer,” he said, still glaring at Madam Picquery. “Not like this. There has to be a better way.”

Madam Picquery raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t we ask Mr Barebone what he would prefer to do?” she said. “It is, after all, _his_ future we are discussing.”

Percy went red. A muscle ground in his jaw. He swallowed down what he clearly wanted to say in response and instead turned to Credence.

“Don’t let them bully you,” he said, grasping Credence by the shoulders. “They can find another way.”

Credence looked at him and then at the wands on the table. There were three left. “I want it over with,” he said. “I want to know…” Then he trailed off, unable to finish his sentence. 

But Mr Dowsell could. He came closer to them both, blissfully unconscious of both Percy’s proprietorial hold on Credence and his still-simmering anger.

“You want to know if there really is a wand for you,” he said, levelling Credence with a long pale look. “You want to know if, after everything which has happened to you, you really were born a true wizard.”

Credence swallowed and nodded. He took a deep breath. “All my life I was taught magic was evil--and that I had evil in me, too. But a little bit of me always hoped magic was the reason and that it might free me, not damn me.” The room had gone awfully quiet but it didn’t matter--apart from Percy, Mr Dowsell was the only one who’d put into words the thing which bothered Credence the most. “So you see, if I don’t belong here, then where do I?”

Percy gripped his arm tighter. Credence leaned into him a little but couldn’t tear his eyes from Mr Dowsell.

“Do you really think you can find me a wand?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Mr Dowsell said, without any hesitation. “Not today--but eventually, yes. It may take some time and some courage.”

Something gripped Credence and this time it wasn’t Percy; it was hope and he seized it with both hands.

“I’ve got time,” he said, “and maybe a little bit of courage.” 

Mr Dowsell smiled.

Credence turned to meet Percy’s dark, questioning gaze. “I want to carry on,” he said. And then he turned to the wider room--Tina, the Committee, Madam Picquery. They were all looking at him, listening.

“I want to carry on,” he said, louder this time. They were all listening. And he had to make sure he was heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the Invisibility Cloak Tina has is not *the* cloak - it’s a lesser kind of invisibility/concealment magic which would be handy for criminality but nowhere near as effective as the Deathly Hallows one. Which is why Seraphina and Percival can see through it--and probably Tina herself, but like she said, she’s desperate.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!! <3


	14. Chapter 14

A wave of murmured approvals washed over Credence. Percy was watching him closely, eyebrows drawn in a tight frown. But he gave a decisive nod, squeezed Credence’s arm once more, and returned to his seat.

Credence watched him go--the unyielding line of his shoulders, the swirl of his coat, the stiffness of his uneven gait. Credence hoped he knew what twisted his heart just then; the thing he hadn’t been able to tell him outright. That it was Percy he wanted to belong to. That he hoped he already did.

But Mr Dowsell was waiting--they all were. Credence tried to stand taller, to pull his shoulders back. He stepped up to the table and braced himself for the next wand.

“Acacia and Phoenix feather,” Mr Dowsell said. “Both are not easy to be chosen and suited only to the most gifted. If Mr Barebone can produce anything at all from this wand it would be highly instructive.”

Credence needn’t have worried about sustaining any more injuries or causing more damage--Mr Dowsell had been entirely right. Try as he might, he could produce nothing whatsoever.

But it didn’t feel like a failure--quite the reverse. The wand might not have accepted him but neither did it reject him like the others had. In fact, it was his biggest victory yet.

“Thank you,” Mr Dowsell said, tucking it back into his briefcase and making a small note in his pocketbook. “Next up, the yew and Veela hair.” He picked up a particularly ornate wand with bands of dark staining round the handle. “An uncommon combination. I have to admit, the choice of Veela is a stab in the dark, though I believe one worth trying. Yew, somewhat unfairly, has a reputation for being suited to dark magic but it does tend to match with unusual individuals of both stripes. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, Mr Barebone?” 

Credence took the wand with a touch more confidence. And it was justified, as this time it went better--much better. Though the spell mostly failed, there wasn’t any singed wood in sight and not even a small explosion. At his _Lumos_ , the wand sputtered out a few weak sparks and Credence felt his hope begin to rise.

Percy’s obviously had as well. He was watching closely from the sidelines and, on seeing this, huffed once and strode over to correct Credence’s grip. 

“No wonder it’s taken this long to find him a wand if no one has bothered to explain the proper technique,” he said, glaring once again at Mr Dowsell. “Try again,” he instructed Credence.

Credence did as he was told, and the wand produced a faint light which fizzled out a few seconds.

“Better,” Percy said, approvingly. There was a short pause--for the first time Mr Dowsell looked a little uncertain at the interruption. “Well, carry on then,” Percy said. “He said he wants a wand--let’s see what else you’ve got up there.”

Mr Dowsell blinked in surprise but managed to continue quite smoothly. “The last one is willow and Rougarou hair,” he said. “I have reason to think willow would be a good match for Mr Barebone. As for the Rougarou, well--we shall have to see.”

The last remaining wand lay on the table, straight and pale with a subtle bone-inlaid handle. Percy peered over Credence’s shoulder to get a better look.

“I know they say never judge a wand by its appearance,” he said, “but it certainly looks the part.” He picked it up, studied it critically, then placed in the palm of his hand. “Good balance.” 

“Yes, it’s a fine specimen,” Mr Dowsell agreed. “Exceptional craftsmanship. One of Beauvais’ finest.”

Seraphina’s voice came sailing across the hall. “If you could save the wand talk until after, gentlemen? We’ve got rather a lot to get through today.”

Mr Dowsell started. “Of course, Madam President,” he said, looking contrite. “My apologies.”

Percy smirked and passed Credence the wand. “I’ve got a good feeling about this one,” he whispered. 

Credence gave him a small smile, one mostly hidden from the Committee behind them. Everything suddenly seemed a lot brighter.

“ _Lumos_ ,” he said, for the final time that day. 

A simple, beautiful bright glow appeared at the very tip of the wand. Credence stared at it, breath held, while joy bubbled in his chest. Next to him, Percy made a stifled sound--half jubilation, half gasp. Tina’s celebratory exclamation echoed off the walls and he heard some of the Committee members behind him rise up to see more clearly.

Mr Dowsell rushed over, fumbling on a pair of spectacles. He peered closer at the light, still effortlessly shining from the tip.

“Not bad at all,” he said, flicking his own wand in the direction of the table. A quill rose up out of the bag and began scribbling notes into the open pocketbook.

“‘Not bad’?” Percy said, in mild outrage. “Really? Is that all?”

Mr Dowsell made a thoughtful sound. “Yes,” he said, with a touch of finality. “I think this is an acceptable match but not the best he could make. How does it feel, Mr Barebone?”

Credence realised he had to think about this--he hadn’t been aware of any particular feeling when he’d held it. He considered the wand--a slim length of polished wood, light and easy between his fingers. “Comfortable,” he said. “Nice.”

“You see,” Mr Dowsell said. “Close, but no cigar, as they say.” He went back to the table, where the quill was still scribbling--the nearer he got, the faster it wrote. “But it’s certainly workable for now. Let’s see how well you get on with some more complex spells.”

“Yes, agreed,” Madam Picquery said, making Credence jump. She’d left her seat for a better view and had been standing unnoticed beside him. She saw his surprise and spoke more kindly to him. “You’ve acquitted yourself well today, Mr Barebone. Why don’t you show us some of the things you learned from Mr Graves? Don’t worry if they’re not successful--we just need a general idea.”

Credence nodded obligingly, hardly daring to believe it. Percy placed a firm and possessive hand on his shoulder.

“I will assist, if there are no objections,” he said, as if daring someone to do exactly that.

Nobody did.

Madam Picquery gave him an inscrutable smile. “I suggest you get on with it, then,” she said, making her graceful way back to the committee.

Percy turned to Credence. “Like we do in practice, okay? Start small, build up.”

Credence took a deep breath and felt the tension in his limbs begin to loosen. He could do this; if he could just focus on Percy and not on their expectant audience, he could really do this.

Percy hadn’t been joking about beginning small. They went right back to basics--all the things Credence had struggled with in the first few days of his training, but this time with a wand. Percy explained the slight adjustments Credence needed to make--how to let the wand pull magic out of him, rather than trying to push for it to happen; how the wand needed directing, and how to listen and use it as a guide. Now that he had a working wand in his hand, his advice made wonderful, perfect sense.

They repeated some of the earlier lessons--Summoning, a Softening Charm, a minor Switching Spell, which was successful, and transfiguring a quill into a knitting needle, which wasn’t. At the end came a display of sparks and Credence followed Percy’s instructions to change colour, shape, and direction to the letter. It went beautifully and Percy encouraged him the whole time with quiet words and phrases no one else could hear. There was even a smattering of applause from the Committee.

But Madam Picquery shushed this enthusiasm. “That’s very impressive, Percy,” she said. “But we need to see more than a fireworks display, however accomplished. You know that.”

“We haven’t finished yet,” Percy said testily. He turned back to Credence and conjured a small circle, like a target. “Now, you know what we should try, don’t you?”

Credence knew--it was a spell he’d read about weeks ago and had asked Percy if he could try it recently. They’d spent the past few days working on it, without much success. Once, he’d managed a formless shape of silver mist but that was all.

“Feeling confident?” Percy asked. “Because I am. Aim for the circle, forget about everything else.” He moved round to stand behind Credence, a hand on one shoulder, his voice hypnotically low. “Just the circle, nothing else.”

There was an expectant pause; the Committee got more comfortable in their seats and waited.

“When you’re ready,” Percy said, “bring up that happy memory. And let go.”

Credence closed his eyes. Percy’s warm breath by his ear and the softness of his voice all helped him sink into the memory: warm sheets against his skin, a pair of arms around him, and words murmured in a beloved voice, telling him he was good, that he was wanted, that he belonged. He felt the wand react and when he spoke the words everything seemed to happen naturally; his magic flowed through and out of him as easily and simply as summer rain from the sky. There was a _crack_ and a whoosh of air and before he knew what was happening there was something large and winged cantering around the room.

Whatever it was, it was horse-like but not a horse. _I really did it._ Credence stared desperately after it, trying to make it out--it was shimmering and ghostly and difficult to see properly from a distance. But he was overjoyed; it was _his_ , something strong and beautiful and pure magic. 

Slowly, but with magnificent purpose, his Patronus made a full circuit of the room. As it passed by the Committee he noticed a commotion spreading through them. Some were pointing at it, opened-mouthed. Some were shaking their heads in disbelief. Some were looking about in confusion.

“Did he manage it?” he heard one of them say. “I can’t see anything at all. What is it--a mouse?”

The Patronus was now heading back towards Credence. As it came closer, the rumble of voices died away and an awed hush settled. Just as it drew up in front of him, he cast a worried glance at Percy.

Percy swallowed audibly and placed a steadying hand on Credence’s shoulder.

If Credence hadn’t known it was a piece of him, he would have stepped back in fright. Now he could see it clearly, he thought he understood why everyone was so upset. It was skeletal, a dark and watchful creature with an unnerving presence. Its hide stretched tight across its bony frame like chamois leather; its wings were huge and powerful. 

Mr Dowsell hurried over as it came to a halt. His pocketbook was no longer confined to the desk and hovered at his side, quill scribbling away madly. “My, my-- _very_ instructive,” he said to himself.

Percy hadn’t moved. He’d gone rather white.

“What is it?” Credence asked him. “I don’t know what it is. A Patronus is supposed to be a real animal, isn’t it?”

“It’s a real animal,” Percy said, staring at it in amazement. “But not many ever see one. Especially not in Patronus form.”

He took a step forwards and the animal mirrored him. Percy raised a hand; it lowered its strange and magnificent head and, with great gravitas, began to lick it.

Percy gave a laugh; of surprise, of disbelief. “That’s my boy,” he whispered softly, petting its neck. “That’s my Credence.”

The creature nuzzled closer, before slowly fading away.

*

The buzzing in the room grew louder and louder. Credence crumpled himself into an empty chair and wondered if he dare borrow Tina’s discarded cloak. Maybe if he just wished hard enough he could make himself invisible like that. But, when he raised his head and looked around, no one seemed to be paying him any attention anyway.

Everyone had gathered in the middle of the room. Percy was in the centre, in deep and furious conference with several others. Madam Picquery was at his side, calmly listening in. Every so often she would interject and Percy would snap his mouth shut, wait for her to finish, then carry on again like he’d never stopped. Tina hovered on the outskirts, trying to force a path inside the group, and occasionally casting worried glances in Credence’s direction. But after a while she gave up; no one was taking any notice of her and it didn’t seem likely they were about to start.

She came over to Credence, maybe a little more warily than he would have liked.

“Is somebody going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked. “What did I do wrong?”

Even Percy hadn’t stopped to explain. After his Patronus had dwindled away, Percy had turned on his heel and gone straight over to Madam Picquery. That had been the signal to everyone else that the meeting was over--a great flood of people and noise had followed, as they abandoned their seats and crowded into the middle of the room. Everyone seemed to have had such a lot they wanted to say; so much so that they were still going strong half an hour later.

Tina sat beside him and fiddled nervously with her wand. “You did nothing wrong,” she said. “Mr Graves was right--you did great, and who knows how much better you’ll get in future.”

“I’ve done something,” Credence said. “I must’ve--look at them all. What was my Patronus? What don’t I know?”

She sighed. “It’s a Thestral,” she said. “It’s not a bad thing to have a Thestral as a Patronus--though it’s very, very rare.”

She fell silent.

“But what’s a Thestral?” Credence said. “If it’s not bad then why is everyone talking about me?”

“Some people are… superstitious about them,” Tina said. “In the past they were thought to be an ill omen. You see,” she turned to Credence, “they can only be seen by someone who’s witnessed enough death to have an understanding of it. That’s why they’re talking--they’re trying to decide what it means.”

“What it means?” Credence repeated. He looked back at the group and then down at the wand he’d used to conjure his Patronus: a Thestral, an omen of death. Whatever that meant, one thing seemed clear. “I’m never going to be normal, am I?” he asked. “It might not be bad to have a Thestral for a Patronus but it’s obviously not normal.”

“You can do whatever you want,” Tina said, more than a little fiercely. “Just because you have some unusual qualities, it doesn’t mean you have to--”

“Have to what?” he said. “What do they want me to do?”

She shook her head. “I can’t,” she said. “I only heard some of it. Let’s wait and see what Mr Graves can do to persuade them.”

A gap opened in the throng; a man broke from it, mopped his brow, and looked around the room until he saw them in the corner. He came over--it was the portly man whose quill Credence had levitated. 

He shook Credence’s hand vigorously. “Nice to finally meet you, Mr Barebone,” he said. “I’m Cromwell Leach, Acting Director of Magical Security--but I dare say you already knew that, even if you didn’t know my face.” He stopped to chuckle heartily, as if he’d made a very funny joke.

Credence was confused but his initial caution at hearing the man’s name waned slightly. Cromwell Leach didn’t really match Percy’s description--not that Percy had ever really described him. It had all been implied by his tone rather than anything he’d actually said. Credence had imagined someone devious and forbidding, but in person Mr Leach appeared rather jolly, even friendly.

“Well, well,” Mr Leach was saying. “Very glad indeed you could join us today.” And then he clapped Credence on the back. “I have no hesitation at in all in saying you should be proud--you’ve got a bright future ahead of you, young man.”

Credence gaped back at him, utterly nonplussed. Even Tina looked taken aback. What on earth could he mean?

*

Percy was about ready to pull his hair out. Everyone had something they wanted to say and most of it, in his opinion, was ridiculous. He put aside the fact he’d been sidelined--conveniently forgot the existence of Leach entirely - and, Director or not, forced the rest of them to listen. In the old days, he would’ve used Seraphina’s tactics--stand back and let everyone say their piece so decisions could be made later, behind closed doors. But now he was on the wrong side of the doors and this was his only chance.

Eventually everyone tired; everything that was going to be said had been, at least twice, and there was nothing left to be discussed. Seraphina melted away, taking with her Leach and Dowsell. Percy watched them go; he could have hexed something in frustration. 

But he didn’t. Instead, he found Credence, sitting quietly in a corner with Goldstein.

Credence didn’t smile; he looked at Percy, pensive and expectant. Obviously waiting for Percy’s return and hoping he would bring answers.

Percy sighed heavily and considered kicking a vacant chair. He didn’t have any answers, and wouldn’t have been able to give them, even if he had.

“They’re talking it over now,” he said. “After that performance I’d say you’re definitely welcome to stay, if that’s what you’re worried about. But the rest you’d better hear from Seraphina.”

He watched Credence turn this over in his mind. It was a good result, certainly not the worst possible outcome, but it was far more complicated matter than he’d realised. Though he’d put up a good fight on Credence’s behalf, he still felt useless, impotent, _old_. He couldn’t even offer Credence the comfort he deserved after such a trial; comfort Percy wanted as well.

What he wouldn’t give for his old office, right now--he could’ve slammed the door shut, allowing them a few quietly moments together. He let himself imagine it: Credence a warm weight in his arms, the tickle of dark hair against his jaw.

He sighed again.

Goldstein was looking oddly at him; oddly, and quite openly. She hid a smile, badly, when he caught her eye. 

“Out with it,” Percy said. “Come on, let’s get everything done today--a clean sweep. Got something to say, Goldstein?”

She shook her head resolutely. “I wouldn’t dream of commenting, sir,” she said. Then, with the hint of a smirk, “It’s really not my place.” 

But she squeezed Credence’s arm and some of her worry seemed to lift. Percy frowned deeply at the change in her, wondering--not for the first time--if her confidence in him was misplaced.

*

They didn’t have to wait very long. A paper eagle came swooping in and hovered grandly before them. Credence stirred from his thoughts to watch Percy pluck it from the air.

“Our turn,” said Percy, reading the note. He stood and Goldstein’s gaze followed him hopefully.

“Shall I wait here,” she asked, “or…?”

That was a good question. He could insist she came along but Percy had some rather personal matters to discuss with Seraphina. Ones concerning what, exactly, she thought she was doing putting people like Leach in charge of someone like Credence.

“Go back to your desk,” he said. “Better it’s just the two of us. I’ll send Bertie, later.”

She got to her feet. So did Credence, who caught her off guard by pulling her into a hug. 

“Thank you,” he said, releasing her. “You didn’t have to come today, but you did. It meant a lot.”

Goldstein was left flushed, more overcome than she was letting on. She stalled for time to gather herself.

“You did real good today, you know that?” she said, pretending to check she hadn’t left her wand on the chair while she wiped her eyes. “I’m proud of you, Credence.” 

Then, with an awkward wave, she headed right out the door without looking back. Credence watched her go.

Percy laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “You’ll be seeing her again, and sooner rather than later, I imagine.”

Credence started. “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s…”

But he shook his head and Percy couldn’t get another word out of him.

Seraphina’s office was two floors above. Percy led the way back to the elevator and then down another long corridor. All the time, Credence remained as silent as someone being led to the gallows. After a small internal battle, Percy stopped abruptly, knocked at the nearest door, and on receiving no answer pulled Credence inside.

It was an unoccupied office--a couple of desks and a few chairs were scattered haphazardly around, left behind by the previous occupants. He turned to Credence.

“Goldstein told you, didn’t she,” Percy said. “About your Patronus. Is that it?”

“Yes,” Credence said. “But no, that’s not it.” He frowned. “There’s something else, isn’t there? It’s more than just the Patronus.”

Percy thought carefully about how to answer that. He wandered around one of the desks, examined a discarded quill for unexpected enchantments and put it back down again. “Did you hear what Dowsell said in there?” he said. “About you being unusual?”

There was no response. When he glanced up, Credence looked nigh on anguished, so severe was his reaction.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Percy said, and went to his side. “Not at all. No one’s mad with you.”

Credence’s eyes remained cast down. Still he said nothing.

Percy sighed and touched his cheek. “When the wand burnt you,” he said, and unfurled Credence’s hand to look at his palm. There was fresh red line there, to match the other, older ones. “Do you remember what happened next?”

“No,” Credence said, a little too quickly. Then, in a much quieter and more defeated voice, “Yes. I lost control again. It went all dark.”

Percy studied the mark on his palm--it wasn’t deep. He could probably heal it, even with his rusty field magic.

“I’m going to let you into a secret, Credence,” he said. “Everyone loses control at least once in their adult life-- _everyone_. Magic isn’t just part of us, it _is_ us. Sometimes it’s a response as natural as laughing or crying.”

He paused to run his thumb slowly over the burn--he had to concentrate a little more than usual, but it gradually closed up and faded away. 

Credence went breathlessly still. “Sometimes?” he said, staring at his hand.

“Yes, and the more you use magic, the less it will happen.” Percy kissed his newly-healed palm and held it, clasped between his own. “You did really well today--no one is holding that against you. Quite the opposite.”

Credence was staring at him, now, wide-eyed. Every so often, his eyes flicked back to his hand. Maybe he was wondering if Percy could fix his scars as well.

“The thing is…” Percy paused. This was a delicate matter and needed to be handled carefully. “It wasn’t that you lost control, it was what you did. Not many can summon a real thunderstorm, even with training. That kind of weather magic is… What I mean to say is, you are--”

“Unusual?” Credence broke in. 

“Well, that’s certainly one word for it.” Percy rubbed his temples and sighed.

“I didn’t even know I’d done it,” Credence said. “My hand hurt, it reminded me of _her_ and how I felt then. How I never wanted it to happen but how I also knew it would feel good to let go and not care anymore.”

Percy nodded, opened his mouth to continue, but Credence interrupted.

“So why would Tina say she was proud of me? If I did something… _unusual_? Mr Leach said it too.”

Percy gaped for a second. “Wait, what? When did Leach speak to you?”

“When you were arguing with everyone,” Credence said. “He came over and shook my hand and said I should be proud--that I had a bright future. It doesn’t make any sense.”

For the second time that morning the urge to kick something rose up, and this time with considerable force. Percy leaned back against one of the desks.

“Depends what your picture of a bright future is,” he said. “I know what’s going to happen in Seraphina’s office. It’s something I would do, if I were still in charge.”

“So it will be a good thing?” Credence said, frowning a little deeper.

“It’s what the Director of Magical Security would do,” Percy clarified. “But it turns out your Mr Graves isn’t so sure about it.”

Credence’s expression took on a different quality; one wary and uncertain. It was time for Percy to finish what he’d tried to explain earlier.

“That storm, Credence,” he said. “I realised something when I saw it, something I didn’t know before.” Percy took a deep breath. “If we were to duel--properly and on an equal footing--I’m pretty sure I’d lose.”

Credence looked dumbstruck. Percy rubbed his bad leg but more out of habit more than necessity. If Credence thought that was hard to swallow, he was really going to struggle with what was coming next.

“Grindelwald... ” Percy said. “I think--if you had met your potential--you would’ve had a chance at beating him.”

Credence shook his head in mute, instinctive denial.

“That’s why everyone keeps talking about your future,” Percy said. “And it’s what Seraphina’s leading up to, what she’s got in mind. She’ll want you to join our fight. Against threats like him.”

“But--” Credence said. “No. That _can’t_ be true.”

“You’ve got a choice,” Percy said. “You’ll decide. Not I--not even Seraphina--can do that for you. It will all be down to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to include a few wand dick jokes somewhere :)
> 
> [Credence’s Patronus was inspired by this fabulous piece of fanart which I love and adore.](http://arealtrashact.tumblr.com/post/173549169200/i-think-your-patronus-likes-me) I knew where I wanted to take his story and a Thestral Patronus just seemed to fit so perfectly. I also love the semi-corporeal Patronus theory, because we all need to see Credence's nuzzling at Graves. And even though WoG disagrees, I went with the idea that not everyone will be able to see a Thestral Patronus. Because it's cooler and makes Credence seem spookier, and for no other reason.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks so much for all the lovely comments! I hope you enjoy the update :)

When they were finally admitted into Seraphina’s office, she was not alone. Dowsell was still there, comfortably installed next to her in a cosy seat by the fire. The detritus of morning coffee and pastries lay about on side tables and vacant chairs--the atmosphere could almost have been described as convivial.

She stood to welcome them. “Thank you for joining us, Mr Barebone,” she said, directing Credence into a huge leather chair. “I wanted to have a little talk with you but first Mr Dowsell has a few further thoughts to share about your wand.”

Percy took the chair beside Credence, studying him surreptitiously. He still seemed a little stunned but who could blame him after such a morning? Trial by wandlore, in front of a row of esteemed witches and wizards, then being dragged into a room by Percy to have the nature of his exceptional talents explained to him. All so he could be sitting here now, waiting for the President’s verdict on his future.

“And I must congratulate both of you for Mr Barebone’s performance,” Seraphina said, pouring out more coffee. “Wonderful progress. I believe Mr Barebone has a great capacity to surprise us even further with his talents. You’ve really brought out the best in him, Percy.”

She slid a cup over to Percy, giving him a pointed look.

Percy stared back flatly. He wished she’d just get on with it and tell Credence straight, instead of indulging in unnecessary flattery.

“Please lead on, Mr Dowsell,” Seraphina said, hiding a smile behind her cup. “Mr Graves is a busy man and has other claims on his time.”

Dowsell cleared his throat. “May I?” he said, hand hovering towards Credence’s borrowed wand. Credence passed it back to him and Dowsell studied it in silence. “Yes, it’s as I thought,” he said, waving it about for emphasis. “This one is perfectly fine, of course, and Mr Barebone here should be able to use it with no problems. But it’s not _the_ one, you see.”

“But what difference does it make?” interrupted Credence. They were the first words he’d spoken--everyone turned to look at him and he went red. “Sorry-- I mean-- I don’t understand. If it works then why do I need another? Can’t I just use that one?”

Dowsell gave Credence an indulgent look. Percy suspected he would forgive any interruption as long as it gave him the opportunity to hold forth on wandlore. Morrigan forbid what he must be like at parties.

“A very reasonable question,” said Dowsell, “and one which has caused disagreement in wandlore circles for centuries. Wand and wizard need to be thoroughly matched for both to reach their full potential--the better the match, the better the result. As the average witch or wizard simply needs a reliable, functioning wand, many are perfectly happy with the first wand which feels comfortable.” He paused, before going on rather wistfully. “I suppose, if one were of a romantic nature, it could be likened to the difference between finding a soulmate or merely a ‘good fit’.”

Percy didn’t mean to catch Seraphina’s eye but it happened automatically. For a moment they were back at school, sharing a private joke over Myrtle Effenbaum’s broom fixation. Things had been much simpler back then and it was jarring to remember.

Dowsell didn’t notice. Neither did Credence, who was hanging on his every word.

“In your case, Mr Barebone, wands tend to hold particularly violent opinions,” said Dowsell. “This one is merely pleased to be in your company--find a wand which loves you and the result will be the exact opposite of the more, er, _hostile_ effects we saw today.”

Seraphina leaned forward. “What Mr Dowsell is saying, Credence-- Can I call you Credence?”

Percy watched his surprise; Credence choked it down and managed to nod his assent.

“Mr Dowsell believes--as do we all after today--that the right wand will bring out your extraordinary talents,” Seraphina continued. “So extraordinary, in fact, that we would like to help and guide you towards your rightful place in wizard society.”

There she paused.

_Here it comes_ , thought Percy. _She’s going to make him an offer. And he won’t be able to say no_. _Not to the President. And not when he wants to belong so badly._

But strangely, Seraphina didn’t say anything further. The moment was left hanging and Dowsell filled it.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “modern methods of wandmaking are aimed at the mass market--easily reproducible but not always appropriate for every individual. After today, I have a good idea which would suit you best. But there’s no wand like it in existence--except perhaps for one, and that is absolutely out of the question… It would be _extremely_ inadvisable, as well as completely inaccessible.”

“Well, if there’s no wand like it, why bring it up at all?” Percy said. “Credence will have to settle for a ‘lesser match’ and he’s already said he doesn’t mind.”

_And wouldn’t that put a spoke in Seraphina’s wheel,_ he thought. If Credence’s talents were just a touch less extraordinary, they’d also be less useful and her interest in him would diminish.

“Oh, no, it’s perfectly possible--but it will need to be made specially,” Dowsell said, quite primly. “There will be an expense, of course, and I can’t offer any guarantees. But Madam Picquery has kindly agreed funds will be made available. Even if I am incorrect the tests themselves will be invaluable, both to devotees of the study of wandlore and to the Department itself.”

This was too much for Percy. Dowsell’s style of alluding rather than explaining was beginning to grate severely on his overstretched nerves.

“What are you talking about?” he said. “Can you just speak plainly for once? What’s all the mystery about Credence’s wand?”

“I believe,” Dowsell said, drawing around himself a curious and dramatic delicacy. “Mr Barebone’s true wand would have a core of Thestral tail hair.”

Whatever Percy had expected, it hadn’t been that. He almost asked Dowsell to repeat himself but couldn’t quite get his voice to work. 

“As you must be aware, we all know of only _one_ wand in existence with that core,” Dowsell said, which confirmed Percy had indeed heard correctly and caused all of his breath to arrive in such a rush it provoked a coughing fit.

“It is notoriously difficult to work with,” Dowsell said in an aside to Credence, as if that was the only possible objection to be made.

“I see,” Percy wheezed.

Seraphina was utterly unfazed and watching him carefully. Obviously it wasn’t the first time she’d heard this speech from Dowsell. 

“I think that with that wand,” Dowsell paused, “Mr Barebone will be able to produce some _quite spectacular_ results. The sky would be the limit.”

“I see,” Percy said again, once he’d recovered, and much more icily this time. Then he turned to Seraphina. “So,” he said. “You finally made up your mind and decided Credence is an asset rather than a threat. What exactly are you offering him?”

“Percy,” she said, partly in warning and partly patience itself. “I will discuss that with Credence next. Alone. Your turn will come later.”

A wave of impotent fury rose up inside him. Percy struggled with it for a moment, in case he really did cause an effect to rival Credence’s Obscurus. At that precise moment, he certainly felt capable of it.

“Shall I wait outside, then?” he said, getting to his feet and throwing on his coat. “If I’m superfluous to events? Then perhaps we can move this along and Credence can finally find out his fate.”

There was silence; everyone stared up at him in shock. But it was Credence’s pale face which drew his attention.

“I’m not going far,” he told him, more gently. “And I’m very confident Seraphina will look after you, especially after that little revelation.”

They exchanged a heated glance over Credence’s head; an almighty row was brewing but Percy was prepared to wait his turn. Though he did slam the door on his way out and very good it felt too.

This time, he didn’t care if anyone saw him lingering outside Seraphina’s office. He didn’t care if Leach’s secretary was watching, or if gossip that Percival Graves was back and hanging around the President’s office like a chastised schoolchild spread around the Department in seconds. He paced, back and forth-- _like a ticking clock_ , he thought, a touch hysterically--and didn’t care if it made Miss Lopez nervous, either.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock._

Miss Lopez politely ignored him. Percy was grateful for that, at least.

It was only a couple of minutes until the door opened again. It was Dowsell--evidently his services were no longer required and Seraphina’s cosy chat with Credence had begun.

Dowsell bobbed his head once at Percy, in both greeting and farewell, but Percy blocked his way. There was no way he was letting him leave yet. Not when he was so desperately in need of information.

“Been a rather successful day, hasn’t it?” Percy said, in the friendliest and most carefree tone he could manage. “Though I expect you’ve now got a lot of work to get on with.”

Dowsell seemed to have forgotten all about Percy’s abrupt and angry departure, and blundered happily into the wandlore-baited trap.

“Oh yes,” he said, very seriously. “This is going to exact every ounce of skill and knowledge I can muster. Luckily, in these troubled times, it will be easier than it has been to find a wandmaker who can work with Thestral hair.” 

Percy blinked and thought back to the war--and all the dead, injured, and bereaved--and couldn’t rouse the same enthusiasm. But he nevertheless persisted with Dowsell.

“Credence seems happy with the arrangements, then?”

“I would say so,” Dowsell said. “Nice young man--very quiet but that’s what we must expect from those with Thestral-leanings. Gentle souls overall, but quite, quite surprising.”

“I wouldn’t say the current holder of the only other Thestral hair wand was a gentle soul,” Percy said, eyes narrowing a little. “Would you?”

Dowsell looked suddenly chastened; obviously he’d finally recalled the situation--and the people--he found himself in the company of. “Well, no,” he admitted. “But I was referring to Mr Barebone’s Patronus, of course.”

“ _Of course_ ,” Percy said, in a tone of exaggerated understanding.

“And his wand…” Dowsell trailed off into wistful thought. “Mr _Barebone’s_ wand, I mean, will be of _quite_ a different character.”

“I can’t imagine one more different,” Percy said, through gritted teeth. But this was exactly what he wanted to know. “Tell me about it.”

“The old adage still holds, of course…” Dowsell went heedlessly on as if he hadn’t heard Percy’s request. “‘The wizard maketh the wand.’ Though the wand may choose its owner, it cannot choose the orders it’s given. And that wand is ingenious, unique… what I wouldn’t give for just a tiny glimpse of--”

“I’ve seen quite enough of it,” Percy growled. “I think we all have. If it was up to me I’d snap it in two.”

“A righteous sentiment,” Dowsell said. “But I must respectfully disagree. A wand like that can’t be put back in the box--even if it were to be destroyed there would be those who try to copy it. Better by far that it be taken out of circulation and studied, properly. The knowledge may even be of use, against those evil-minded enough to wield it for chaos and destruction.”

For the first time, Percy was forced to consider Dowsell seriously. Up until now he’d seemed merely a pompous, overly-intellectual annoyance. This smacked uncomfortably of something like good sense and he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it.

He drew a little closer and lowered his voice out what he hoped was the hearing of Miss Lopez. “I’ll ask you a simple question, Mr Dowsell. And I need a simple answer. Are you sure you’ve got this right about Credence’s wand?”

Dowsell nodded, in a surprisingly sympathetic manner. “Naturally you’re concerned,” he said. “Madam Picquery said you would be. The, er, _superstition_ around Thestrals is bad enough, without inevitable comparisons to the notorious example we’ve just been discussing--that of the Elder Wand.”

“Hold on,” Percy said. “Didn’t you say it was unique--that there was no other like it?”

“No other existing specimens are known,” Dowsell said. “Superstition and the difficulties of the material have meant it has fallen out of favour, but my research over the years has concluded it was once a fairly common wand core among the early wizarding kingdoms of Britain and Ireland. You recall, of course, that Thestrals are native to the area and were once not as feared as they later became. In fact, it was only after the Norman invasion that--”

“Yes, okay, I get the drift,” Percy said. “Just tell me about Credence’s wand. Why are you so set on Thestral?”

“He has a questing nature,” Dowsell replied. “One which will need guidance and support. Credence will need to seek answers to questions which are currently beyond him--Thestral will help with his task and larch will steady him.”

Percy took in a great breath, leaned against the wall, and let it out. “Larch, you say?” he said, distractedly. He suddenly felt quite worn out. Credence was special and everyone could now see it. It would be beyond Percy to protect him as well as he wanted. 

Dowsell looked like he might deliver a sympathetic shoulder-pat but, thankfully, at the last minute changed his mind. There was an awkward pause where Percy experienced an odd, floating sensation. It was as if all the tension had drained from him, only to be replaced by tension of a completely different kind.

“It’s a good thing he has your support,” Dowsell said, softly. “He’ll do well, mark my words.”

Percy scrubbed his face with one hand and laughed weakly. “Yes, I’m sure he will.” And then, though he wasn’t sure exactly why, said, “Thank you.”

“It has been my honour,” Dowsell said. “Wands are my livelihood and my passion. I never tire of my study, even of the most humble and workaday specimens.”

Percy looked at him long and hard, taking in Dowsell’s thin bony face and large pale eyes. He seemed as overly-earnest and professorial as before, but there were signs also that he had a kernel of tenacity and purpose. He could offer Credence something that neither Percy--or even Seraphina--ever could: objectivity. He’d seen right through Credence’s exterior, the burdens of his history, and understood far more than even Percy had. _Thestral-leanings, indeed._

Curiously, it made him wonder what Dowsell saw in him. As a sort of test, he said, “Before you go,” and brought out his own wand for Dowsell’s inspection. “What do you make of this one?”

Dowsell put on his spectacles again. “At first glance I would say this was ebony,” he said. “But it’s not, is it?”

Percy smiled. “No. It isn’t.”

He allowed Dowsell to take it from him. Dowsell weighed it in his hand, scrutinised the tip, then held it at out at arm’s length. 

“Fir,” Dowsell said decisively. “Lacquered, inlaid with silver, and a White River Monster spine core. A survivor’s wand, disguised as something else. Very interesting.” He handed it back, a small smile playing around his rather weak chin. “An elegant but steadfast wand of considerable character,” he said. “It should pair well with Mr Barebone’s.”

And with that parting comment, he tipped his hat and departed. Percy was left staring after him. Even Miss Lopez had stopped pretending not to listen to watch him go.

That hadn’t been exactly what he’d expected. Percy was left feeling stripped bare but not precisely displeased about it. Steadfast, a survivor. _Pairs well with Mr Barebone’s--_

But a violent vibration coming from Miss Lopez’s desk made him start. She picked up a large seashell and held it to her ear for a moment. Then she turned to Percy.

“She says you can go in now.”

“About time, too,” he said, straightening his cuffs. Now for a good old-fashioned brawl.

*

Credence was just getting up as Percy closed the door behind him. He watched Credence shyly shake Seraphina’s hand and then turn to leave. He was a flushed but pale underneath, and made for the door with his characteristic quick, nervous gait. As he passed, he met Percy’s eyes. Percy could read his subtle agitation but wasn’t sure which of them it was for.

The door closed again as Credence left the room. Percy stared after him, an unsettled feeling in his chest.

“Don’t worry, Miss Lopez will look after him,” Seraphina said. “He’ll be just fine without you.”

Percy stared hard at her. “You think I’m being overprotective,” he said. 

Seraphina sank into her desk chair in a way which fell just short of her usual grace. She rolled her shoulders once and rubbed the back of her neck. “You want a fight,” she said. “You’ve been waiting for this for weeks.”

“If you’d listened to me earlier--”

“If I’d listened to you earlier, and given you the audience you asked for, neither of us would be where we are now.” 

Her tone was softer than he expected; too full of understanding. All it did was stoke his anger

“You can't ask him for this,” Percy insisted, banging his fist onto her desk.

“It’s too late,” Seraphina said. “It’s already done.” She paused and looked him over carefully. “This wasn't exactly what I'd imagined when I put you two together but it seems to have had the desired effect.”

“What do you mean?” He planted himself opposite, bent low over the desk to glower at her. 

Seraphina leaned back in her chair, irritatingly unconcerned. “I thought you might benefit from each other's company,” she said. “It's clearly worked rather well. Mr Barebone seems much rosier than the last time I saw him.”

Percy mouth gaped. He hadn’t expected this conversation to take a dip into his private life and, now it had, he found he’d never been less in the mood for sharing. 

“And you’re much more like your old self, too,” she said. “Irascible, self-righteous, domineering. I’m not sure if it can really be called an improvement but I’m glad to have you back all the same.”

Percy froze, all his arguments derailed.

Seraphina shuffled a few papers on her desk but soon gave up, exasperated. “Oh, _sit down,_ Percy,” she said. “None of this is doing Credence any good.”

Percy lowered himself into a seat and found himself rather shaky. He crossed his legs, tried to arrange himself to better advantage. “I would have thought bold, steadfast, and just a little debonair are equally valid descriptors,” he said. And: “I was going to tell you about Credence. Later.”

“Well, there’s absolutely no need to tell me when you arrive bristling with overprotective concern--never mind _publicly fondling his Patronus_.” She sighed heavily. “I should mind, of course, as now technically your professional opinion on the Project has been compromised. But overall, it seems to have been an astonishing success.”

“It's not overprotective,” Percy said. “He said he wanted a quiet life. _He deserves one_.”

Rather than answer, she fixed him with a searching look.

“Just give him some time,” Percy said. “Let him finish his education, make up his own mind. Let him live for a bit before you press-gang him into becoming your weapon.”

She stared at him in shock. “What in Morrigan’s name do you think I’ve said to him? I’m not a monster, however imperfectly I may have handled things in the past.”

There was a heavy silence, full of things they were both unlikely to say out loud. 

Seraphina recovered herself first. “I don’t blame you,” she said, shortly. “I let you down, badly. It’s natural you don’t trust me like you used to.”

“No,” Percy said, shaking his head. “It’s not that-- It’s--”

“Yes it is,” she said, with finality. “Somehow we both got lost--I’m not sure when but it was a long time ago. Power and politics don’t mix well with friendship. I didn’t notice things I should have.” She frowned and looked pensive. “Even _before,_ there were warnings that--” she said, and stopped.

There was another long silence. Percy found he couldn’t look at her; it was much easier to turn and gaze across the room into the fire instead. In his mind, the years of their friendship spun out like unravelling yarn; looking back was disorientating and looking forward wasn’t much better. But something settled all the same: it was time for him to move on.

After a beat, he gave a short nod; acceptance of an unspoken apology. 

“Credence…” he said, but then didn’t know how to continue. He started again. “I wasn’t expecting any of this. He’s special, in more ways than one--he’s helped me understand a few things. About myself.” He sighed. “He’s been through a lot. I just want what’s best for him.”

“I can’t overlook his talents,” Seraphina said softly. “He might even end up one of the greats. We need him. We need his loyalty. You know that.”

“What did you say to him?”

“He has a choice but I’m certain he’s already made it: he can stay, learn magic, and help us or we can arrange for him to go back to his old No-Maj life, provided he keeps himself in check and submits to regular surveillance.”

“Not much of a choice,” Percy said. “You know how desperately he wants to belong. And that he doesn’t have a life to go back to.”

“We need him,” Seraphina repeated. “I took the advice of my best counsel--fail to prepare and you prepare to fail. Credence is a golden opportunity for preparedness. We don’t know what’s round the corner but recent portents have not been promising.”

Percy frowned unhappily at the tacky snowglobe on her desk, given to her it as a joke. A grotesque choir of carolling house elves peered up at him; the charms which made them sing, in horrible reedy voices, and the globe to swirl with snow had worn off. It looked rather pathetic now.

“We may be wrong, of course. Mr Dowsell could have got his wands mixed up or Credence’s talent could be more limited that it appears.” Seraphina leaned in, all business again. “What’s your assessment? As his commanding officer, not as anything else.”

Percy glanced up, doubly unhappy. He could feel the walls starting to close in. “If only you knew how unfair it is to ask me that.”

Seraphina raised an eyebrow. “You think he’s that good?” she said, and added, “Hecate's torches, you have got it bad.”

Percy raised his eyes to the ceiling and nearly prayed to Credence’s God that they didn’t have to talk about that now.

“My assessment is his potential is enormous but it’s too soon for him to commit to anything.”

“To _anything_?” Seraphina said, archly. “You sure about that?”

Percy glared at her. “He’s had rather a difficult time of it, in case you hadn’t noticed.” But it was no use stalling. “In your shoes,” he said, “I’d keep an eye on him, make sure he’s properly educated, then go from there. Give him a chance to surprise you before you slot him into a neat, preordained hole. He’s got seven years of magical learning to catch up on and a lot more besides.”

The unfairness of it all struck Percy harder than ever: Credence had been treated good or ill based only on his usefulness to others, a pawn in a much bigger game. And here was Percy, colluding to keep in him play. A flare of rebellion made him add: “Are you so sure I won’t advise him to turn you down when he asks me?”

Seraphina frowned, curious. “Would you be willing to give him up?” she asked. “You’d have to, if he went back to his No-Maj life.” 

Percy remembered Credence’s certainty they were both in each other’s future--he’d made it sound like fate. But there was only one answer he could give.

“Yes,” he said. “If I thought it was the right thing to do.”

Seraphina studied him carefully. “But it isn’t, is it?” she said. “You don’t think so, anyway.”

Percy shook his head, defeated. “Credence has a place here, somewhere. I don’t know what it is--I don’t think any of us do, especially Credence.” _Thestral-leanings,_ he heard again in Dowsell’s voice. _It’s a good thing he has your support._ “He needs to decide for himself, whatever I say. But I made him a promise that I’d take care of him, as best I can, so don’t think for one moment I won’t keep to that. That won’t change--even if you gave me my old job back, I’d put him first.”

“You’ve been talking with Mr Dowsell, I see,” Seraphina said. “And, interestingly, you appear to agree with him. I wasn’t sure, myself, though _now_ … But, as for your job, how do you feel about starting back next Monday? I think Cromwell would be quite happy to get back to Charms Control, to be perfectly honest.”

Percy frowned, confused. “Is that a joke?” he said. “If so, it’s about as funny as a werewolf in an orphanage.”

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear earlier,” Seraphina said. “I’ve been trying to get you back ever since I realised you’d gone missing. To accomplish that I had to send you away for a while.” She crossed her arms and added, “And it appears dropping a boy half your age into your lap didn’t hurt, either.”

“Oh, for Salem’s sake,” Percy said, massaging his temples. “It’s not like that. Andit’s none of your business.”

She wore an irritating smirk which told him he hadn’t heard the last of that particular topic. “So,” she said. “Monday?”

Percy took a moment to let her offer sink in. It was what he’d wanted all along--to get back to his old life and forget everything else. But was it that easy? Desirable? _Possible?_ Everything he’d learned, especially today, suggested not.

“If you expect the same man to come back as left four months ago,” he said, “don’t bother offering. Everything is different--not all of it is bad but there are some scars which won’t fade.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t think my leg is going to get any better,” he admitted. “I’m stuck with it. And my memories--I realised something today, something I have to tell you.”

She frowned. “What is it?”

Percy took a deep breath. “I don’t think he took them. I think it’s… me.”

She stared at him with dawning disbelief. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, affronted. “I just told you I had scars. That’s one of them.”

It had fallen into place in Credence’s holding cell--the ticking clock, his nightmares about being alone, trapped helplessly watching as another self walked around. He understood now: he’d just been a simple tool, used and discarded. Grindelwald had locked him up and forgotten about him, leaving Percy without even the dignity of being tortured for state secrets. The only sounds he’d heard had been ones of his own making--pacing back and forth as a means to mark time, stubbornly surviving alone in the pitch dark.

“The fragments I have left helped me understand,” he said. “And Credence, too. He figured it out but was too wise to tell me straight out. My memories haven’t been stolen--it’s a type of amnesia brought on by trauma.”

“I know,” she said, still taken aback. “I just never thought you’d come to that understanding yourself.”

They stared at each other in shock for a few moments.

“What do you mean _you knew?”_ Percy thundered.

She waved a careless hand at him. “I only suspected but-- Look, this came, I was going to show you today.” Seraphina pulled a sheaf of papers from a drawer and began leafing through them. “We recently had word from the German Security Minister. Everything they’ve retrieved from Grindelwald has been clear--no trace of memories originating from you. All they’ve got is his own account of your duel and capture and the information he extracted to aid his impersonation. They’ve not finished yet but so far it looks like he left you there pretty quickly and didn’t return.”

She pulled out a few pages and handed them to Percy. He turned them over slowly, unseeingly, while he digested the news.

“We’re cooperating very closely,” Seraphina continues. “They’ve offered us his memories of the incident. Apparently how he managed it was rather unusual and we’re going to need to rethink some of our procedures. A report will need to be written and it seems only right I ask how you’d like to go about it--I thought you’d want to write that yourself.”

Percy’s decision came immediately. “No,” he said. “Someone else can do it-- _not_ Leach--and I’ll read their report. I don’t want or need to carry those memories and I’m not going to. I’ll be happier without them.”

There was a short pause while she considered this. Eventually, she said, “You really have changed.” 

“I found something to believe in,” Percy said. “Something I can’t easily put into words.”

“You picked a hell of a time to grow a personal life, I know that,” she said. “But I guess we all could do with a pinch more--even the best of us find this constant vigilance trying on the spirit. And what else can we fight darkness with if not light?”

Percy snorted. “Now _you_ sound like you’ve been spending too much time with Dowsell,” he said. 

“That was Credence, actually,” she said. “Like you said, he’s very surprising.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Percy said, putting his head in his hands. “Just wonderful. You’ve got him on a quest.”

“I’ve got him on no such thing--in fact, I intend to take your advice. Keep him close and see what happens--which I’m sure you’ll help with,” she added, dryly. “And as for you, I’m only going to ask you one last time--can I expect to see you here next Monday or not?”

“I don’t have much choice, now, do I?” Percy said. “I come back or hand over Credence’s welfare to Leach.”

“That’s not exactly the resounding yes I’d hoped for.”

Percy rubbed his forehead. “I can’t-- I need to talk to Credence first. Give me a day to think it over.”

“You can have two,” she said. “That’s how long Credence has, too. I’ll expect to hear from you both then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note on Patronus fondling :) - I think it would be a very intimate thing to touch someone else’s Patronus, and that to do so with such unspoken understanding, as Percy did while in shock, means that he announced to all his colleagues that he’s almost certainly boning Credence. Especially as Credence’s Patronus, once it became clear there was no threat for it to drive off, made straight for Percy as well. :) :) :)


	16. Chapter 16

Credence had waited quietly by Miss Lopez’s desk until Percy reappeared, looking tired, furious, and slightly bewildered all at the same time. He’d taken Credence by arm and said, “Home?”

Credence had nodded, and that had been that. Percy had all but marched them out of the building and back into the alley for Apparition.

They made one stop on the way. Credence only remembered it was coming up to lunchtime when they entered The Móshù Café and Percy placed an order to go. He watched the lotus-shaped cartons magically wrap up their egg rolls and noodles and supposed he was hungry, but it didn’t seem a particularly urgent matter after all that had happened. Being asked to stay and help MACUSA by the President herself had been quite enough, never mind all the other revelations about himself and his magic.

Percy didn’t refer to any of it, not even once.

Instead he slammed their takeout onto the dining table and said, “I need a vacation. A good long spell of absolutely nothing, with nobody to bother me. What did you say before, about disappearing off? _That_.”

The little red and gold dragon on the side of the bag flexed its wings and let out a burst of gold flame. Credence focused on it and tried his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. It was understandable, he told himself. The morning--in fact, the whole few weeks--had been difficult and confusing for them both, and added to that Percy hadn’t had a break for a long time. He’d gone straight from work to being Grindelwald’s prisoner to hospital and then back to work again. And Credence shouldn’t forget that that work had been teaching _him_ magic. A break was probably exactly what he needed.

“Maybe that’s a good idea,” Credence said, attempting to sound brave. “Everything’s happened so fast, after all. And I’ll see you again when you get back, won’t I?” 

Percy’s glower whipped round to fix on Credence. “What are you talking about?” he said. “When I get back? Don’t talk nonsense--you’re coming with me.” He stopped and bit his lip. “Aren’t you? I mean, if you don’t want to, then--”

“Oh.” Credence smiled, first with relief, and then with something much happier. “Okay.”

Percy came closer, and brushed Credence’s hair away from his temple. “Do you want to?” he asked, much more softly. “I’m sorry, I promise I won’t be this grouchy when you’re shut up alone with me. We’ll go somewhere nice, maybe find a place on the coast… Would you like that?”

“By the ocean?” said Credence. He’d never actually seen it--the closest he’d got had been the crossing to Staten Island while visiting a rich potential donor with Ma. It was a memory of a very brief pleasure, one which he’d known better than to show: the air had had a different smell and the muddy-grey water had sparkled incongruously in the distance. For a moment, it had seemed like he could’ve been going anywhere and with anyone, sailing far away from the city, never to return.

Then he realised he hadn’t actually answered and Percy’s frown had taken on anxious slant. “I mean-- Please, yes,” Credence said, a little too quickly. “Of course I would like that--very much.” 

Percy let out a breath and regarded him with soft eyes. “Then by the ocean it is,” he said, and started to unpack the food.

Credence helped, fetching bowls and forks and spoons to save Percy the trouble of summoning them. It gave him a little time to think and, now that he was reassured of Percy’s intentions, he was able to say: “It would make sense, you know, for you to want to be on your own for a bit. We’ve both got a lot to get used to.”

“But sweetheart,” Percy said impatiently. “I don’t want to leave your side. Not ever.” And, almost as an afterthought, added, “Unless you ask me to, of course.”

It was the very matter-of-fact-ness of his tone which brought Credence up short. Everything was okay. Percy wanted him and there was nothing left to stand in their way. He’d done it--they’d _both_ done it: Credence was going to become a real wizard and Percy would be with him every step of the way.

His skin suddenly felt a little tight and he had to focus on making his lungs work properly. He looked into Percy’s eyes and made himself see the surety there; the careless sincerity of what was offered. Careless because it could be; because it was true and had already been accepted.

“Sweet boy,” Percy said, taking his hand. “Did you doubt me? I wouldn’t blame you if you had.”

Credence bit his lip, shook his head. He craved, suddenly, Percy’s arms around him, his lips on his own and the simplicity of his desire. There would be time to think later; think and talk and try to understand what everything meant. Right then, he just wanted to bathe in Percy’s attention, his care, his touch.

After that, everything happened in a rush. Percy pulled him roughly into his embrace and Credence went willingingly, even emphatically. The takeout was abandoned, unceremoniously shoved to one side. A chair was knocked over, possibly by Credence’s elbow while he tugged at Percy’s waistcoat buttons. Something on the table was spilt, but neither of them cared.

Quite a few minutes passed, filled with the rasp of stubble and sliding eager hands, before Percy broke away.

“I know we should talk,” he said. “There’s a lot to say. But I’m tired of it and right now all I want to do is bed my beautiful boy, repeatedly, and then maybe get some sleep. That okay with you?”

Credence stared into his eyes, his mouth hovering only a couple of inches over Percy’s. There was no need to answer, he decided, so he just smiled back and set to work on Percy’s belt.

*

Credence lay naked in Mr Graves’ bed, flesh humming with a pleasant rawness, still with the taste of Mr Graves on his tongue and the sense-memory of Mr Graves in his mouth. Any worries seemed unimportant and very far away. He knew whatever happened would be okay because right then he was exactly where he needed to be.

Mr Graves had kept mostly to his word. He’d bedded Credence exactly once--a fairly urgent and very enjoyable tumble--and had taken a short nap, but now seemed inclined to talk much sooner than he’d led Credence to believe.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” Mr Graves said, voice heavy with regret. He lay on his back with both forearms draped across his eyes. “I promised to protect you.”

Credence leaned over him and pulled his arms away. “You also promised not to worry about me,” he said. He couldn’t quite quash his smile; it was hard not to when Mr Graves was being so dramatic and just a tiny bit absurd. “Will me working for MACUSA really be that bad?”

“I don’t know,” Mr Graves said, sitting up a little. “Don’t think it was always all that great for me. And I never wanted to do anything else.”

“You seem pretty good to me.” Credence smiled, then remembered the previous sleepless night and realised that wasn’t strictly true. “What I mean is, I don’t think you would choose differently. Even now.”

Mr Graves blinked at him for a moment. “No, I guess I wouldn’t,” he said. “But you wanted a quiet life. So that’s what you should get.”

He crossed his arms and looked so obstinate that Credence was near helpless with love. No one had ever cared what he wanted before, and definitely never so much.

He kissed his forehead and said, “But Mr Graves, quiet or not, you can’t stop life from happening. And this is a much better kind of life than the one I had.”

Mr Graves seized Credence around the waist and hauled him on top of him. “Still ‘Mr Graves’, is it? Did I not do my job properly the first time?”

It was true he couldn’t quite snap out of thinking of him as Mr Graves--a tingling warmth had remained buried under his skin and their shared nakedness didn’t really help either. Credence blushed a little and tried not to wriggle. It was very, very nice to lie cradled snugly between Mr Graves’ legs, and he did indeed wish for a second time to match the first.

“I guess not,” he agreed, with a small smile.

Mr Graves laughed. “Well, I promise to fix that as soon as I can,” he said, and kissed him, long and sweet. 

Credence murmured his pleasure into it; Mr Graves’ kiss was full of wicked promise, one he wanted fulfilled. The tingling warmth ramped up a notch and became an insistent heat.

But Mr Graves wasn’t done with his worries. He drew back and asked, “What did Seraphina say to you, exactly? The choice I heard about wasn’t much of one--something about you staying and doing as you’re told or leaving forever.”

“It wasn’t quite like that,” Credence said. “We both agreed I didn’t have much to go back to and that I wanted to stay. The part she asked me to think about was helping wizardkind and MACUSA--but what I do, when I’m ready, depends how I might be useful and what I want and all kinds of other things.”

“Doesn’t sounds at all like that quiet life,” grumbled Mr Graves. “Morrigan forbid, it could even be dangerous.”

“What kind of quiet life did you have in mind?” Credence asked.

“This,” said Mr Graves, gesturing at their embrace and the rumpled sheets. “Pretty much permanently. You, spoiled rotten--or as spoiled rotten as I can make you--safe, happy, nothing to worry about.”

Credence smiled. “That’s Mr Graves talking,” he said. “What does Percy think?”

That seemed to get his point across rather effectively. Mr Graves groaned and scrubbed his eyes. “Fine, you win. Percy wants you to learn all you want to learn, go everywhere you want to go, and achieve everything you want to achieve.” He wrapped his arms round Credence’s waist and looked him square in the eye. “But he’d still prefer it if you ended up with a nice, safe desk job.”

“Maybe I will,” Credence shrugged. “There must be lots of desk jobs I can’t even imagine right now--strange magical ones. Or maybe I’ll end up only being good for filing.”

Mr Graves’ answering laugh was both soft and sharp. “I can just see you now, driving me to distraction in the archives,” he said. “My office doesn’t have windows, you know, and the door only opens on my command--maybe I’d ask you to help me with some _important research_ in there, hmmn?”

The hands on Credence’s waist went southwards and squeezed. Credence gasped, squirmed a little, and Mr Graves rolled them both over so Credence was sprawled underneath him. Mr Graves then applied himself to Credence’s neck with considerable determination.

“Does that mean you’re going back to your old job?” Credence asked. He couldn’t help himself, even with the gentle scrape of teeth on his neck and a hot mouth sucking at his pulse point.

Mr Graves pulled back slightly. “‘Fraid so, little sailor cub,” he said. “It seems where you go, I follow.”

Credence poked him in the ribs. “I’m at least an inch taller,” he said. “ _At least_.”

“Maybe so, but I’ve easily got thirty pounds on you.” Mr Graves grinned at him. “So ‘little sailor cub’ it is.”

Credence couldn’t help laughing at him. He didn’t protest again--Mr Graves’ playfulness left him with an unexpected but lovely feeling of security. And it seemed to make Mr Graves feel better, too.

“But I’m not the only reason you’re going back, right?” he asked. “It’s something you want to do?”

“I don’t know if ‘want’ is the right word,” Mr Graves said. “But I can’t let these past few months be how I end my career. I need a different ending before I can move on.”

Credence touched his cheek and Mr Graves leant into his palm. “I know you’re right to worry about me,” Credence said. “But I need a different beginning. Something useful I can do, maybe enough so I can make amends or find some forgiveness.”

Mr Graves’ look of dismay soon crumpled into something softer--Credence had known he’d understand, however reluctantly.

He propped himself up on one elbow and said, “Dowsell said you had a ‘questing spirit’, did you know that?”

“No,” Credence said, feeling both mortified and a little proud.

“He also said I’d be a steadying influence,” Mr Graves said, grinning now. “What do you think of _that_?”

“Oh, _no_.” Credence covered his eyes. “Does everybody know about us? I think-- I think Madam Picquery knows too.”

“Oh, she definitely knows,” Mr Graves said. “And Goldstein. They’d better get used to it, I suppose. They would have realised soon enough, anyway--once they’d noticed you’d come to live here with me.”

Credence went absolutely still. He hadn’t even thought about that, even in his wildest dreams. Practicalities had never occurred to him--he’d just assumed he’d stay in his little apartment and Mr Graves in his, because that was how things had been. But, of course, everything was going to be different--the future had been set in motion, and in that future he lived--

“Here with you? Really? Are you sure?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” said Mr Graves, kissing him again and smiling. “If I can’t stop life happening, at least I can make it go my way. And anyway--how else am I going to keep that promise to look after you?”

*

Credence’s hair was standing up in little tufts, caused by a good twenty minutes of Percy tugging his fingers through it. It was still in the style that damn woman had forced on him. There and then, he made a resolution to deliver Credence to a decent barber--that way, Percy could keep his mouth shut, safe in the knowledge that Credence would be guided by an expert and leaving him quite free to make his own decision. 

Credence himself looked peaceful, his cheek warm against Percy’s chest. His arms were tucked cosily along Percy’s side, and the rest of him stretched out across the bed. Even with so much left to discuss, they’d fallen silent, content to just look at each other and smile. 

_Everything is going to be okay_ , Percy thought. Or, if not that, then at least a lot less terrible than he’d feared. Credence had an odd kind of wisdom and, though Percy didn’t have his faith, he trusted in Credence’s. Whatever was going to happen, their choices would be made together, not alone. Compared to what he was used to, it was a reassuring prospect.

Also, there was this: Credence was going to come live with him, share his bed, look at him like that every day. _Not something to be casually accepted and forgotten_ , thought Percy. _It needed to be celebrated properly; indulged in, even._

He smiled at Credence afresh. His gaze was open; it held more knowledge and confidence now, which only made it sweeter. Credence blinked slowly back at him, his breathing slow and even. Percy touched his chest, stroked the bone-pale skin like he might a cat. Credence shivered, his expression blossoming into contentment, and sleepily shut his eyes.

By degrees, Percy let his hand drift further down to his stomach, taut and smooth, and rubbed his thumb through the line of silk-soft hairs he found there. Credence heaved a great happy sigh and turned onto his back.

“Something you want?” Percy asked his extremely arresting profile. 

The profile smiled silently back. Percy watched the curve of his lips, the swell of his cheek.

“No?” Percy said, withdrawing his hand and returning it to Credence’s chest.

At that, Credence frowned--almost _pouted_ , Percy noted with suppressed delight.

“Come along,” he said. “Where are those beautiful manners I like so much? Being a good boy is a reward in itself, but I know you like the rewards I give even more.” 

To drive his point home, Percy pinched one of his nipples gently. The corner of Credence’s mouth twitched. Percy did it again, a little harder, and was pleased with the quiet sound Credence gave in response.

Credence turned his head and caught Percy’s eye. “Please, Mr Graves,” he said, with a grin which was not at all shy. “Please would you touch me?”

“Touch you where, sweetheart?” Percy said, and earned for himself another almost-pout.

Credence, frustrated still by his difficulties over naming things aloud, or maybe just enjoying being as stubborn as Percy, upped the game magnificently by tugging down the sheet to reveal his exquisitely lovely erection. All things considered, it was a very eloquent argument.

Percy slid his hand back down Credence’s stomach and onto his hip. He let it come to rest where his thumb could just graze the tender skin of his inner thigh. Credence let out a little groan; Percy felt the jump of tensed muscles under his palm.

“Please, Mr Graves?” Credence said again, and gave him a pleading look.

Percy admitted a partial defeat--it was difficult to deny himself the temptation of the velvet-rose length lying across Credence’s stomach. It was even more difficult to deny Credence.

“Like this?” Percy said, grasping it gently. Softly, he stroked his hand up and down from tip to root.

Credence gasped, much louder this time and arched into it. “Yes, like that, Mr Graves, thank you.”

“You wouldn’t prefer it faster or harder?” Percy asked. “Or,” he paused for dramatic effect, and leaned a little closer to Credence’s ear, “ _wetter?_ ”

Credence’s eyes shut tightly; he swallowed and grabbed for the sheets, a clear hitch in his breathing.

“You know I can,” Percy said. “With just a word, I can make it real wet and slippery for you. Would you like that?”

A deep blush had spread across Credence’s cheeks. He nodded but didn’t speak.

“Is that what you like?” Percy persisted, keeping his voice low and steady and close to Credence’s ear. “Your cock all slick in my fist? Does it feel good that way?”

Credence’s eyes flew open; he groaned through his bitten lip, bucked up into Percy’s hand. “Yes, yes! Oh, Mr Graves, please?”

So Percy did--and the look of raw pleasure on Credence’s face at the sensation almost undid him. But he was a patient man and there was a different kind of pleasure to be had from observing Credence’s; the restless shifts of his limbs, the flutter of his eyelashes, the music of his gasps and soft moans. It was good to provide; to know that the place Credence felt safe enough to let his desires grow and flourish was in Percy’s arms. That was a very special pleasure, indeed, and he took his time in enjoying it.

Percy worked him slowly with his fist, letting his gaze travel greedily over the swell of his lips, the lean planes of his chest, the sweet shallow curve of his hips. And, finally, over the lovely pink cock sliding through his fingers, wet and eager and hard. 

“Is there anything else you’d like?” Percy asked, noticing Credence’s legs were spread further open than was strictly necessary. “Or is this good enough?”

Credence peeped out from under the arm he’d thrown across his eyes. He wore that pleading look again; he didn’t say anything but drew his knees up and spread his legs a little wider.

Percy decided not to make him ask for it--he’d already progressed so far and there was no need to rush him. “I think I know what you want,” he smiled. “But take my hand and show me so I know I’m right.”

Credence bit his lip, grasped Percy’s wrist and pulled his hand down between his thighs. 

“Here?” Percy said, seeking out his hole with a knuckle and rubbing lightly.

Credence made a needy but grateful noise. “Oh-- Yes, Mr Graves. _There_.”

“Mmmm,” Percy said, doing it again. “What a good boy. Think you can take my fingers again? Maybe more than two this time?”

Credence blushed hard but the eagerness in his eyes was hard to miss. “I want to try, Mr Graves,” he said. “I want to be your good boy.”

He looked Credence straight in the eye and made sure he knew it was part of the game when he said, “If you listen well, and follow all my instructions, I’m sure you can be.”

Credence’s eyes brightened a little; he nodded and said, very seriously, “Yes, Mr Graves.”

With his head pillowed so perfectly on Percy’s chest, it was a shame to ask him to move but Percy had to; the angle was too awkward and Credence was still too new at this. It would be much too uncomfortable for both of them to stay where they were.

“Up with you, then,” Percy said, patting the mattress. “Come lie here next to me.”

And then, once Credence was settled, Percy pressed close to his side. “Spread your legs for me, sweetheart,” he said, and cast the lubricating charm again. Credence sighed, writhed a little, and when Percy’s fingers found his entrance he was obscenely slick, hot, and just a tad more impatient to be touched.

He watched Credence’s face while he did; the visible pleasure it caused him was captivating. Credence sank into it; eyes tight shut, untouched cock rigid on his belly. It made for an outstanding view but Percy had an idea to make it even better.

He leaned forward and licked the broad of his tongue hard over Credence’s nipple--Credence gasped loudly, eyes opening in surprise.

“That’s good, baby, very good,” Percy said. “Now, I’d like you to do something for me. I’d like you to take one of your hands and touch yourself--can you do that?”

Credence’s eyes grew a little bigger. He swallowed, looking torn by his desire to do exactly that and the self-consciousness he hadn’t yet broken free of. _Here_ , thought Percy, _was where Mr Graves and his instructions came in very useful._

“It will help you relax,” he said. “But, maybe more importantly, I like looking at you. Will you give me something extra nice to look at?”

Percy dipped his head and sucked Credence’s nipple into his mouth, then released it.

Credence squirmed, moaned, and managed to whisper, “Yes, Mr Graves.”

“Good boy,” Percy said, planting a kiss on his cheek.

Credence’s hand snaked slowly downwards. When he reached his cock he cupped it for a few moments, and then rubbed gently with the heel of his hand.

Percy propped himself up on one elbow to watch. “Very nice, that’s it,” he encouraged. “Don’t worry about me--just make yourself feel good.”

His own hand was still busy between Credence’s legs, his soft puckered skin slippery and far more welcoming. This time he’d taken one finger quite easily; Percy pushed it in deeper, which made Credence gasp and grab for his cock properly.

After that, Percy worked him slowly but firmly, encouraging him with praise as often as he could. By the time he’d added a second finger, Credence had grown fairly bold, stroking himself with a tight fist. The only sign of bashfulness was that he kept his eyes shut. Other than that, Percy thought he was getting along very nicely.

He tried to retain the drawn-out mood, preferring not to rush Credence and to keep him on the edge of comfortable pleasure for as long as possible. But Percy’s own needs had started to become difficult to ignore--soon, either they would need to be addressed or a numbing charm would be required.

“Want to finish like this, sweetheart?” he asked. “On my hand?”

Credence dragged himself back to the surface, blinked dazedly at Percy and shook his head.

_Interesting_. “What would you like instead?” Percy said.

Credence opened his mouth but hit upon his usual problem--he either couldn’t quite figure out how to phrase it or was still too shy to do so.

Percy kissed his forehead, to soothe the little furrow there. “You can have anything you want,” he said. “You know that. But it’s hard for me to give it to you if I don’t know what it is.”

“I want… _this_ ,” Credence said, reaching towards Percy’s straining erection. Then he steeled himself and clarified, “Inside me. Please?” 

A slightly stunned silence followed. Percy’s mind went rather blank and still, and when he next had a thought, it was that this was all happening a bit sooner than he’d anticipated.

“You sure?” he said. “There’s no hurry.”

Credence nodded his head. “I keep thinking about it,” he said, and blushed even harder.

“ _Really_?” Percy said, unable to wipe the grin off his face. “And do you touch yourself while you think about it? No--don’t answer. I’d prefer to read what I can in your blushes and then maybe I can think about that when I touch _my_ self.”

In reply, Credence just said, “Um,” and looked a bit glazed.

Still grinning, Percy swooped down to kiss him; glazed seemed to suit him rather well as this time Credence’s kisses were hungry--deep, messy, absolutely glorious. Percy slid his fingers back inside him and swallowed his answering moan. His cock was rigid, trapped between their stomachs; his fingers dug into Percy’s shoulders and pulled him closer still. And he opened up beautifully to Percy’s fingers--the slickness and heat of his body caused an urgency in Percy that he struggled to tamp down.

When Credence began to push back against his hand, Percy knew it was time. He cast a numbing charm on himself and slid between Credence’s legs so he could use the head to tease him. That way, Credence could get used to the sensation of a cock rubbing over and along his entrance without risking anyone any disappointment. Credence took it with wide-eyes and an open mouth, his fists twisted in the sheets, breath coming in tight gasps. Percy had to remind him to relax more than once, and each time Credence worked hard to obey, forcing his breathing to slow and his muscles to unwind.

Before he went further, he told Credence, “It might feel strange--too tight or too full--but it shouldn’t hurt. If it hurts, even just a little, you must tell me straight away.”

Credence nodded furiously and gasped out his promises. Slowly, Percy let the head stretch him open, but no more than that; Credence watched him with desperate, trembling control, one hand anchored tightly round Percy’s wrist.

Percy, too, found himself shaky with the effort, the intensity, with his building emotion. Numbing charms were all very well and good, but they did nothing for the heart or senses--his felt over-stretched and raw.

To give them both a break, he slid out again and used his fingers once again.

“You’ve done so well,” he said. “Such a good boy; I’m so proud. If that was enough, that’s okay, we can still wait.”

But Credence was determined. “Now,” he whispered. “Please, now. Don’t make me wait, Mr Graves.” 

So Percy gathered the shreds of his self control and did as he was bid. Credence’s trembling was more needy this time and his movements more urging. Percy watched, rather than felt, his cock breach Credence and then slide out again; Credence arched, moaned, spread his legs further apart. Percy moved swiftly; hooked Credence’s leg over his shoulder and bent low over him. When he lined up against him and slowly pushed in, Credence went still in his arms, eyes locked on his.

Percy took his head in his hands, kissed him, found himself whispering things to him as he sank deeper inside: _my boy, my sweet boy, so good, I love you so much_. Credence’s breaths were ragged, his nails dug into Percy’s hips, but he moaned a continual chant of _yes, yes, yes_ while his body twitched round Percy’s cock.

Percy had to pull back a little, then in again. It was too much; Credence had split him wide open; he felt something secret and precious spill out, into Credence’s safekeeping. He pressed his face to Credence’s neck and held on tight.

“Mr Graves… ” Credence said desperately, and began to rock against him.

“I’m here, baby,” Percy whispered, and slid his hands over his flanks, up to his waist. “That’s it, good boy. My good boy.”

He let Credence build a slow rhythm and then, when he started to get restless, Percy thrust once; a little abrupt motion which jolted Credence further up the bed. 

“ _Dear Lord in Heaven_ ,” Credence burst out, then clapped both hands over his mouth.

Percy couldn’t suppress his laughter; some of his heartache eased. But his next thrust was slower, more careful. “That good, baby?” he said. “Credence, I need to hear you.”

Credence nodded frantically; pulled his hands away from his mouth. “Yes, I- Oh!” A further thrust caused another wordless gasp to burst from him.

“Good, show me how much like you it, sweetheart.” The look of shocked pleasure on his face was extremely gratifying; and, more than that, the numbing charm was wearing off. Percy could feel things he hadn’t been able to before; the tight slide of Credence’s body, the intimacy of their shared heat. “And touch yourself, too,” he said, “I want to make you come like this.”

That seemed to do it for Credence; Percy would never have guessed that a little light dirty talk would push his buttons quite so much. But then, there was a lot about Credence he never would have guessed.

Nothing held him back this time; he jerked himself hard and fast, and Percy did his best to keep up. The numbing charm had definitely gone; he could feel every squirm, every push, every slide. His boy was tight and hot and slick and laid out like a banquet-- He had to hold on, or--

“Mr Graves, I'm-- I can't, I’m going to--”

“Yes, baby, yes--do it, do it for me,” Percy urged.

And then Credence was coming in joyful spurts, over his long, pale fingers and taut, soft stomach. Immediately, Percy was lost; spilling inside his beautiful boy, forehead pressed to Credence's. His name was the only thing on his lips, in his mind and heart. And Credence--flushed, dazed, still shuddering with pleasure--watched him with something like awe, fingers entwined with his.

Afterward, he was received by Credence’s strong, lean arms. They wound around him, drew him down to lay his head on Credence’s chest, and Percy realised he was exhausted. But he didn’t feel remotely like sleeping. Instead, he closed his eyes and felt the rise and fall of Credence ribs; heard his heart and his lungs work beneath the shell of his ribs.

Something inside himself had been cracked open, leaving behind a soft defencelessness which was new to him. New, and yet not that new. He lay quietly, thinking about fragility and strength, about love and fear. When he felt Credence’s hand in his hair, he knew he’d never before been so unafraid, so strong, or so loved.

*

A while later, driven by hunger, they found themselves back at the dining table and the neglected takeout. In fact, Credence had been so ravenous he wore only Percy’s house robe slung around his shoulders. Naturally, he’d belted it primly around his waist but there was still a sliver of pale chest on show, one which lengthened every time he bent over his noodles. Percy watched him happily, wondering if he could persuade him to wear it more often. 

By the time they’d finished the egg rolls, it had been agreed they would accept Seraphina’s offers, though Percy had successfully argued to make her wait until the deadline before formally answering. Added to this, Percy was going to demand extra vacation time--some of which he planned on taking very soon. Much as he would love to immediately whisk Credence away, he’d realised their vacation would have to wait. There was simply too much to do.

First, they had to move Credence in. His belongings were few but Percy was determined to change that; if Credence were to live with him, he needed to feel at home and have things around him he could call his own. Also, now that he had the whole of magical society open to him, he must have more clothes. A single suit, coat, and a handful of shirts was nowhere near enough--something had to be done and Percy remained convinced he was the man to do it. Eventually, he would convince Credence of that, too.

Then there were Credence’s prospective tutors. Percy particularly wanted to discuss this with Seraphina--already he’d had a few ideas about who was suitable and that was before he’d even properly set about making a list. And he would need to do the same for his return to the Department; he couldn’t just turn up in a week’s time and pick up from wherever Leach had left off. He needed to be prepared; to leave no room for doubt that, finally, the real Percival Graves was back.

Lastly, and most importantly, there was the matter of Dowsell and his work with Credence to go into--including procuring his wand. Rather than being over and done with, it seemed as if the Project was only just beginning. And though, given his relationship with Credence, it was unlikely Seraphina would relinquish control over to Percy, that didn’t mean he couldn’t have extremely well-informed and professionally-judged views, and express them with all the force expected from his position as Director of Magical Security and second-in-command to the President herself.

So there simply wasn’t enough time for even a day away. And any vacation he spent with Credence would have to be the real deal, with nothing half-assed about it--no answering so-called ‘urgent’ pigeons, no getting bored and spending the afternoon drafting an amendment to the Animagus and Human Transfiguration Directive, and absolutely no blasted newspapers at all. Until then, they had evenings and weekends, and there was plenty of good use they could be put to. High on the list was introducing to Credence the pleasures of a nice long soak in the tub; much of the rest of their time would be well spent rather cosily--and noisily--in bed.

While Credence composed a note for Goldstein, Percy was as cheerfully engaged in planning just such an evening as he was admiring the view across the table. Credence’s head was bent studiously over the page, a touchingly serious furrow on his brow and the feather tip of the quill just brushing his cheek.

After a while, and a few more scratches with the quill, he raised his head.

“How’s this?” he said. “‘Tina--all is well but it would be easier to explain in person. Can you meet us in Annie’s tomorrow after work? Percy wants to buy you a banana split--’” Then he stopped, the frown back again. “Should I call you Percy, or something else?”

“I don’t really mind.” Percy took a long sip of coffee and thought a little harder about that. “But I’m not sure she’s ever heard anyone call me Percy before--she might not know it’s me.”

Credence crossed out ‘Percy’ and replaced it with ‘Mr Graves’. “Madam Picquery calls you Percy,” he said.

“Seraphinacalls me Percy simply because I don’t like it,” he said. “Or, didn’t like it. It goes back to our schooldays.” 

“Why would a friend do something on purpose knowing you don’t like it?” said Credence. And, more doubtfully, “She is your friend, isn’t she?”

Percy smiled. “Yes,” he said. “But our friendship is more of a good-natured fist fight than anything else. We prefer it that way.”

He watched Credence turn that information over carefully and store it away for safekeeping. _I have so many more things I want to tell you_ , he thought. _Everything from my first broomstick to when Sophia Moretti broke my arm during the third week of Auror training. So much that, even if we had all the time in the world, I wonder if it would be enough._

“But you like being Percy better now?” Credence said, persistent as ever. He wore that little frown again; it was still directed at the note but Percy knew the note wasn’t the cause. 

How badly Percy wanted to sweep him into his arms, then. His sweet boy; did he not understand? There had been no Percy before; then Credence had named him and everything had begun to make sense again.

But he just said, “Yes, I do.” And then, because it was impossible to resist, “I also like being your Mr Graves. Very much indeed.” 

Credence blushed a little; there was the faintest air of satisfaction in his answering smile. Percy regarded it happily and had another sip of coffee.

“If Madam Picquery does it to annoy you,” Credence said, neatly copying out the note, “she’s lost that particular weapon and hasn’t yet realised. So I guess you win.”

Percy laughed. “For now,” he said. “We probably should refresh the rules of combat.”

He went to the window to call Bertie--one long low whistle, magically amplified and directed to the coop on the roof. It took quite a few minutes before a drafty flutter announced his arrival.

“You took your time,” Percy said. “Credence has a job for you.”

Bertie brightened up considerably at this news. He hopped over to Credence and gave a little coo.

“Disgusting,” said Percy, though it mostly for show. He rather liked that Bertie was getting along with Credence. “As if you don’t know who pays for all your pellets.”

Credence tied the note to his leg and examined it carefully. “I hope that’s not too tight,” he said, glancing at Bertie.

Bertie gave his leg a shake then strutted around the tabletop, the very image of a brave and dutiful messenger. Percy stifled a laugh, lest he disrupt Bertie’s growing devotion to Credence. He had a plan for it, after all. 

“Now, all you need to do is tell him where to deliver it,” he told Credence.

And to Bertie, he put on his sternest voice. “You’ll be taking orders from Credence from now on so I want you to listen good. Do your job properly and you won’t have to deal with me ever again. Is that understood?”

Both Bertie’s and Credence’s eyes widened. Bertie cooed loudly and scudded back over to Credence.

“I think he’s happy about that,” Percy said, sitting back comfortable in his chair. “And so am I, as it happens.”

“I’ve never had a pet before,” Credence said, and then immediately realised his mistake when Bertie indignantly ruffled his feathers. “Was that the wrong thing to say?”

“He’s very touchy,” Percy said. “That pigeon has ideas above his station.”

“I’m sorry, Bertie,” Credence said. “I’m still getting used to a lot of things--I’d like it if we could be friends?”

That went down much better. Bertie gave a soft coo and gently pecked at Credence’s finger. 

“Oh, good,” Credence said, scratching him under the chin. “Now, Bertie, please can you deliver this to Tina Goldstein tonight? It’s very important.” 

Bertie immediately fluffed himself up to grand proportions and strutted back to the window. With a last look at Credence, he hopped onto the sill and was gone.

“Well,” Percy said, after a moment. “That’s quite an improvement. Pretty sure he’ll end up being your loyal and faithful pet so long as you remember to never, ever, mention it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Chinese restaurant’s name means ‘magic’ in Mandarin and was helpfully provided from an online dictionary - native speakers are free to hit me with a brick for any blunders. It probably contravenes Rappaport’s Law but Percy is blissfully ignorant of this and therefore can continue to buy his noodles in peace.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter! Thanks to you all for sticking with me <33

A week wasn’t a very long time but, by Friday afternoon, much had been accomplished.

Credence had become a permanent fixture in Percy’s apartment and Rubinacci’s were in receipt of several new orders. It had not taken much effort to move Credence’s belongings in, but it had taken a little more to get him to agree to all the extra clothing Percy insisted he needed. Credence had grown wise to Percy’s persuasive tactics; wise and surprisingly stubborn. But, once Percy had pointed out that soon his days would possess more variety, with lessons and tutors and new places to visit, and reminded him that it was the usual thing to have more than one suit, rather than the reverse, Credence changed his mind. But not before he made Percy promise not to be too lavish or spend too much money--promises which Percy gave sincerely and then later _almost_ succeeded in keeping.

In the course of the week, Percy had also undertaken a few home improvements--something he really should’ve done sooner. It was high time to admit he wasn’t ever going back to his old place and to settle firmly into his current one. So, by the Friday afternoon, the broom closet had become a sizeable office, and the box room enlarged into a brand new room for Credence to do whatever he wanted with. Although Credence had shared about as much detail of his upbringing as Percy had about his confinement, he had an idea Credence had never had any space to call his own and Percy had been determined to change that.

Their promised meeting with Goldstein had been distinguished by large amounts of hugging, stoically endured by Percy when news of his own return to work surfaced. Goldstein had then demanded a full account of Seraphina’s offer to Credence and all the plans which would follow. Percy had told her everything he could but later made sure to have a quiet word in her ear concerning the precise nature of MACUSA’s hopes for his future. Strictly speaking, that was entirely at odds with the secrecy of the Project, but he had a feeling the new Director Graves was not going to lose any sleep over breaking that particular rule.

In addition to all that, there had been a constant stream of correspondence to deal with too. Seraphina he heard from daily, and sometimes more often. Without being asked, Dowsell had begun sending regular updates and was hoping to have Credence’s wand ready in a few weeks. Tutors were being selected and quietly approached, ready for the appointed day. And even Percy’s direct reports were tentatively starting to sound him out about work matters. On the surface, each note appeared to be a personal one welcoming him back, but they each also subtly requested his advice. Or not so subtle, as in the case of Emeryth White’s note, which merely said:

> _Can you tell me what I’m supposed to do about these blasted cauldron exports as no one else in this place seems to care?_

But it was Cromwell Leach’s note which stood out to Percy. It was only a sentence, and seemed almost friendly, which didn’t make any kind of sense. It was so strange he even showed it to Credence for his opinion. 

> _Good to have you back on board, you’ve been much missed--all’s well that ends well, as they say--C. Leach._

Credence had read it, patiently listened to Percy’s theories over its potential hidden meaning, and said, “I don’t think he’s all that bad, you know. If you got to know him better you might understand what he means by it.”

Percy couldn’t wrap his head around such a disconcerting suggestion and had decided to worry about it later.

But, all in all, it seemed as if come Monday morning things would be as back to normal as they ever would be. Which only left the weekend free for other, more relaxing, activities.

One of these was Credence’s trip to the barber. Percy had made the arrangements, of course, trusting no one else but his own with the job. Morisi’s was a surprisingly spacious but well-hidden barber shop, which shared its unobtrusive entrance with a No-Maj one. The discerning wizard in search of a hot shave simply ducked left immediately after the barber’s pole. Any No-Maj who noticed that the nondescript door there, with its dusty flaking paint and scuffed floor tiles, would have no desire to see what lay beyond. Certainly, they couldn’t imagine it led into a dazzling lime-scented world of polished mirrors, gleaming porcelain, and the sharpest scissors this side of Sicily. 

In an attempt to prevent Mr Graves from bursting out and start calling the shots, Percy introduced Credence to Mr Morisi then quickly availed himself of one of his assistants. Content that Credence was in the hands of an expert, he accepted the hot towel with an easy heart and prepared to enjoy a few minutes of repose. 

It helped that Credence was much less nervous than he’d been at Rubinacci’s. Percy listened to him explain to Mr Morisi that he’d got in the habit of visiting a barber shop once a week to keep his hair neat and tidy but had never plucked up the courage to ask for anything different or even known what else to ask for.

Mr Morisi stood back and considered Credence’s hair. “You’ve got two options,” he said. “Take it all off or grow it out and re-style. Personally, I’d choose to grow it out--but maybe you’d prefer it very short?”

He gestured at the clippers, hanging in front of them on the wall. Percy looked at their vicious little teeth and then at Credence in the mirror, who was obviously steeling himself to ask for exactly that.

“Grow it out,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Both Credence and Mr Morisi spun round to look at him. Percy reflected that, really, he should have explained the differences between magical and non-magical barbers before they’d arrived--Credence wouldn’t know his hair could be grown out in an instant--and forgave himself his interference. _Under the circumstances,_ he thought, _it’s entirely excusable._

Mr Morisi turned back to Credence with a patient air, waiting for a decision.

“Grow it out?” Credence doubtfully instructed.

“Very good, sir,” Mr Morisi said, and instantly summoned a glass bottle filled with a lumpy greyish mixture. “My own recipe,” he said, measuring some out into a cup. “Gives a more precise effect than Callithrix’s Miracle Hair Restorer. And tastes better.”

Credence gingerly accepted the potion, after a further glance at Percy for reassurance. He politely tried to hide his grimace as he drank it down, registering surprise when he found the taste not as bad as expected.

Mr Morisi chuckled. “A hint of cinnamon,” he said. “My patrons much prefer it.”

There was an expectant pause where nothing happened. Then, with an audible _poof_ , Credence’s head was suddenly obscured by masses of shoulder-length hair. So much of it, in fact, that he had to part it into thick dark curtains just to be able to stare out at his reflection.

Percy was staring, too. He only realised he’d sat fully up when Mr Morisi’s assistant retrieved his face towel fell from the floor and handed him a fresh one. Dumbly, he watched Mr Morisi sigh in satisfaction and begin combing through Credence’s hair. Gradually, it fell into place, glossy and dark, languidly curling into waves. It gave Credence’s mouth a new lusciousness and his eyes a gleam of allure. He looked half-wild and utterly beautiful.

After a moment, Mr Morisi’s scissors floated in close, snipping in the air in readiness. “Much better,” he said. “Lots to work with here. What would sir like? Perhaps something similar to Mr Graves?”

“No!” Percy said, then shut his mouth with a snap. Again, both of them turned to him in surprise. “I mean-- Credence, why don’t you take a little time to think about it?”

Credence was still stunned by his new appearance. “I didn’t even know it curled until just now,” he said, leaning closer to the mirror.

Mr Morisi, sensing potential discord, conceded a little. “A longer length does seem to suit you some,” he said. “It may not be the strict fashion but perhaps we could tidy it up, and then see how you feel?”

Percy focused very hard on his knee and stayed deliberately, painfully, silent.

Credence paused for a moment, then said, “Yes, okay. Let’s try that.”

And so, Percy could unclench his fists and was, at last, able to enjoy his hot shave. Or as much as he could, with one eye still trained on the mirror and one ear tuned to the busy scissors beside him.

“I don’t look like me,” Credence said, on their arrival home.

He’d said very little and kept staring at himself in mirrors, like his reflection had a secret to tell and he had to lean right in to hear what it said. 

And Percy had continued staring at Credence, though he’d hidden it best he could. His hair was now about jaw length, curls somewhat tamed, and about as far away from a typical No-Maj style as could be. Mary-Lou Barebone would probably think the devil himself was hidden within its voluminous tangle. Percy had a sudden vision of Credence as a young boy, fresh from the orphanage; her towering over him with a pile of dark curls at her feet.

“I disagree,” Percy said, pushing away his anger and embracing Credence instead. “I think you look more like you than you’ve ever done. Give it a few days and you’ll see it too.”

*

After a few days, Credence thought he understood what Percy meant. It wasn’t so much the style--he was beginning to get used to that--but more his constant surprise at the person looking out through the mirror. The change was more than cosmetic; he had an odd sense he was seeing a future version of himself--someone he wasn’t yet but soon would be.

It made him wonder about the scars on his back, and those still on his palms; about what other changes love and magic could make. Percy had been so kind, that first time; so kind and so gentle, even with Credence’s shame. As his love grew, Credence’s shame lessened, enough to let Percy touch them, imprint kisses where before nothing but pain had lived.

“Can magic take them away?” he’d asked one night, thinking of an alleyway and hands which did not belong to his Mr Graves.

Percy had studied them tenderly. “Some of them, I think,” he said. “But it would have to be by a Healer more skilled than I am. We could find you one and ask?”

“Maybe,” Credence had said. “I’ll think about it.”

But so far it had been enough just to know that he could, if he wished, erase at least part of what had been done to him.

The new life he had with Percy was only a couple of weeks old but already it seemed like forever. Sometimes, it gave him a strange kind of vertigo and he had to sit down and wait for the world to stop spinning. The tiniest and oddest things set it off, such as the sight of a pair of silver cufflinks in a dish or a coffee stain on a newspaper. But he had plenty of leisure to try get used to it.

Once Percy had gone back to work--and after Credence reassured him there was no need to Apparate home for lunch every day--he was free to come and go as he pleased. He would go for walks, sometimes long ones, and enjoy the sensation of having nowhere in particular to be and nothing in particular to be doing. The rest of the time he stayed at home and read, curled up either in Percy’s favourite chair or in his own brand-new sitting room.

When Percy had first raised the idea of a room of his own, he’d protested--the trouble and expense was too great; he was more than happy enough without one; Percy had been generous enough already. But he’d watched Percy create an office out of the broom closet using only his wand and a little imagination, so that had demolished his first argument. The second Percy had successfully argued away by explaining he didn’t care if Credence used it, only that he had one to use should he want to. And the final objection had been countered with the observation that if, here, of all places, Percy’s generosity was a bone of contention, they had much bigger problems.

“Let me look after you, little sailor cub,” he’d said. “By all means, tell me when I overstep the mark, but if giving you a place which is yours and where I won’t intrude unless invited, is too much, then I don’t know what isn’t.”

And so, on the condition that the same rule of privacy should apply to Percy’s office, Credence had agreed. 

Percy made it from a tiny box room, expanded to generous and logic-defying proportions. Since the only window overlooked a dim alleyway, he added an enchanted skylight which somehow mirrored the sky above. It looked exactly like the real thing--very strange indeed when Credence knew they were ten floors between them and the roof. And, in addition to the furniture he had Credence pick out from a catalogue, Percy included a few surprise touches of his own. There were plenty of books, some magical and some not--Percy admitted to enjoyment of certain No-Maj writers, a surprising number of which were quite lurid potboilers--and a gramophone. There was also a special perch for Bertie to roost on at night, should he tire of the communal coop and the company of other pigeons.

Credence liked to lay on a mound of cushions on the floor, reading and gazing up at the enchanted sky. It also gave him somewhere to practice his magic. Though he’d been assured his lessons would begin soon, he was worried about forgetting the few things he’d already learned. His favourite spell was still the Patronus Charm but without a wand it remained beyond him. Instead, he imagined his Patronus picking its delicate, unearthly way round the room--sniffing his books, gazing solemnly at Bertie on his perch, nuzzling proprietorially at Percy.

He’d been fascinated with the idea of a Patronus, long before he’d managed to produce one. The books he’d read described it as a secret part of the self, a positive compared to the negative of his Obscurus. Instead of projecting rage and pain, the spell would conjure a spirit guardian in an image of the caster’s soul. Or, at least, that was how Credence understood it--from what he’d gathered, everyone seemed to have their own version of what a Patronus was and where it came from. 

One night, having invited Percy to join in with an hour of stargazing--or as much stargazing as the city could offer--he persuaded Percy to perform the Patronus Charm. He’d refused to demonstrate when Credence had first asked to learn the spell, explaining the magic was so difficult that seeing another’s Patronus before your own could be a hindrance rather than a help. The key, he’d told Credence, was to focus on the inner work of magic, rather than on the external results.

This time he was more forthcoming, and perhaps a little more honest. “I haven’t tried since before I was captured,” he said, reaching for his wand. “But I’ll give it a go.”

For once, Percy’s spell made use of both wand and incantation. Though spoken quietly, his words were firm and self-assured, and produced a magnificent silver panther, exactly as Percy had described to him several weeks ago.

But Percy looked disappointed. “I thought it might have changed,” he said, scratching his head. They both watched it prowl over to the window and back again. “I don’t know what a sailor cub looks like but I guess I thought it might represent you somehow.”

The panther padded heavily over to Credence, who beamed and let its great whiskered head come closer. Immediately, he was certain he would’ve recognised it anywhere--it had a familiar vigilance, a strength which was rooted deep.

“I think this is who you’ve always been,” Credence said, unable to tear his gaze from it.

The panther butted its head against his shoulder and he leaned forward to welcome it into his arms. The experience was quite odd; he could feel its short, sleek fur and beneath that all the power and heat of a predatory beast, but felt nothing but astonishing love. It truly was a piece of Percy’s soul, but a piece he could actually touch. 

“Mr Dowsell said you were steadfast, didn’t he?” Credence said, once he’d got his words back. “I don’t think you change easily.”

Percy was watching him, a strange look in his eye. “He did, yes,” he said, and sighed. “I’ve been wondering about change for a while--what changes, what doesn’t, and why.”

Credence rubbed the panther soothingly behind the ears while he thought about that. Percy had gone back to work a couple of weeks earlier and he’d come home each night and barely said a word about it. Everyone close to him had spent months with Grindelwald and no one had noticed the difference. To Percy, any sign of change in himself would probably be very welcome.

As the panther disappeared, the sensation of touch vanished first. Credence could no longer feel its lustrous fur, the strong muscles of its neck. The last part to fade were its gleaming eyes and long whiskers.

“You inspire loyalty,” Credence said, after it had vanished completely. “In case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t particularly,” Percy said. “But that’s… nice to hear?”

“I mean--” Credence said, then wondered if he dared continue, if he even should. He wasn’t sure if Percy would welcome it. “That’s how he did it, if you ask me: the loyalty people have for you.”

Percy blinked a few times in rapid succession. There could be absolutely no doubt in his mind which _he_ they were talking about.

“He took advantage of it and pushed it as far as he could,” Credence said. “It was only when it blindingly obvious that people saw through him. They’re loyal to you so they didn’t question his actions until it was too late.”

There was a long silence. It was growing dark--twilight had crept up on them and the lamps were still unlit. Percy’s face was in shadow and Credence couldn’t guess what he was thinking. Maybe he should’ve kept his mouth shut but it just seemed so _obvious_. That Percy blamed himself was obvious, too, as if he really thought the two of them were so similar they couldn’t be told apart. Credence was certain there were lots of people simply straining to tell him the opposite and equally certain none of them would dare.

“Everyone I’ve met so far believes in you so much,” Credence said. “Not just me--Tina, Madam Picquery, Mr Leach, everyone. It wasn’t just your job he needed to get what he wanted, it was you.”

“I see,” said Percy, tonelessly. 

Credence stayed quiet to let him think and, while he did, remembered about how months ago he’d puzzled over the mystery of the real Mr Graves. Before Percy had asked to meet him--even before Goldstein had told him he’d been found alive--Credence had wondered why his mind couldn’t let him go. And now he knew the answer: he was just that kind of man, one not easily forgotten. Even a facsimile had opened up a void in him, one which needed to be filled.

He reached for his hand and squeezed it. Percy squeezed back, then seemed to rise up out of his thoughts.

“I see,” he repeated, and stretched himself out on the floor next to Credence. “I never thought of it that way before.”

Credence waited, but nothing else followed. It looked like the subject had been put to rest, at least for now. 

Percy, at ease again, took out his wand and waggled the handle at Credence.

“I showed you mine, so you should show me yours,” he said. “It would be nice to see your Patronus again without a crowd of spectators spoiling the moment.”

“But I can't,” Credence said, in deep confusion. “You saw what happened to those wands.”

“Not all of them,” Percy said, depositing it on Credence’s chest.

Credence picked it up cautiously. He’d never held it before--Percy either kept it firmly in his wand pocket or in a locked drawer while he slept. Close up he could see slight patches of wear around the handle and there was a tiny dent in the silver cap.

“I can't risk destroying it,” he said. “It's too beautiful. And it’s _yours_.”

Percy simply folded his arms behind his head and gazed up at the night sky. “I saw what happened,” he said. “And I heard what Dowsell said, as well. But it will know you, Credence. Trust me on this--it will make a choice, just like I have.”

Credence didn’t know what to do. Percy was so insistent, yet he couldn’t bury his worries. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. But I really don’t want to hurt it.”

“You won’t,” Percy said, waving a dismissive hand at him. “Go on--use it. Show me your Patronus again.”

Credence relented. He took a steadying breath and tried to pull his happiest memory around him but, at first, his dread of turning Percy’s wand into firewood got in the way. It became easier when Percy’s warmth pressed closer against his side and Percy’s arm was slung casually around his waist. Also, the wand began to react to him. It started in his fingers and worked his way up his wrist; a buzzing, tingling sensation which threaded along his nerves, soothing and settling his worries, paving the way for the magic he was trying to work.

He breathed steadily out. “ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” he said, and there was a dazzling flash of light.

The sensation in his veins grew more like singing; he felt as if his heart might explode with it. And there was his Patronus, bending its long and bony neck to nose at Percy’s middle.

Percy grinned, delighted, and rubbed its soft hide vigorously. “Aren’t you spectacular?” he said to himself. “Quite full of surprises.”

Credence was still staring at Percy’s wand. Now he understood why Percy had been so sure it would survive his magic. Only the memory of the strange singing in his veins remained but he knew now what it reminded him of--the very thing he’d used to conjure his Patronus. Percy had said it would know him, would make a choice, just like Percy had. And he’d been right.

“Does that mean--” Credence said, and stopped, because he knew the answer already. “What I mean is, I never said--”

“You don’t need to say anything, sweetheart,” Percy said, turning to him. The hand which wasn’t being licked by his Thestral found his own. “I know. Me too.”

Credence nodded, a lump in his throat. He lay his head on Percy’s shoulder and squeezed his hand tightly. “My Mr Graves,” he whispered quietly.

And then, watching Percy and his Thestral engaged in a friendly battle for who could lavish most affection on the other, said, “I wonder what our Patronuses would make of each other.”

Percy took back his wand, smiling. “Let’s find out.”

*

The appointment with Dowsell arrived in no time at all. Both Credence and Percy met the day with quiet expectation, despite Dowsell’s constant exhortations that the wand he’d brought was only the best of his current theories and by no means a sure thing. 

He repeated it endlessly to anyone who would listen; his correspondence had been peppered with reminders that there were no guarantees and he spent at least a third of a Project meeting explaining it all again. It was what he told Credence, too, when he made him try out several other wands before he would even give him a glimpse of the one made specially for him.

Percy was the only other person there. He’d insisted on this--Credence had been prodded and poked at quite enough. Getting his first wand should be a rite of passage, not an opportunity for administrative voyeurism. He wanted Credence to be able to look back with fondness at the experience, like any wizard should. Though the surroundings were not quite what he’d wished--they’d co-opted the basement room in the Abditum once more, due to the likelihood of flying debris--at least it was familiar ground for Credence. Hopefully it held a few good memories for him, as well.

And he’d made sure Credence had worn his best clothing--a sooty charcoal suit with a faint pinstripe, black velvet lapels on the vest, and a long narrow black coat to finish. Credence didn’t know it yet, but they were going out to celebrate afterwards. A nice little restaurant Percy was fond of, one with candlelight, wine, and a good selection of desserts to tempt Credence into self-indulgence.

Perhaps dessert would be a good time to present him with the tie pin he’d bought to mark the occasion. Or maybe he’d do it at home. It was only a little thing, nothing overstated or flashy, nothing to offend Credence’s modest tastes. Just a hint of garnet to sit at his throat, with a subtle gleam of gold. Recently, he’d learned that gifts given by Mr Graves were received far more readily, and that was the course Percy planned the evening to take. He fondly imagined the mix of wine and candlelight; his sweet boy’s inevitable protests, his blushing acceptance. 

_Yes_ , thought Percy. _Perhaps I’ll do it at home, after all. I probably won’t be able to Apparate back in that state and walking will take forever._

But, before that could happen, Dowsell had to come up with the goods.

He still infuriated the living daylights out of Percy, though he had no idea why he’d expected any different. Perhaps because he now knew Dowsell was capable of good sense--very good sense, on occasion. _If someone had found the trick of it,_ Percy thought, _why couldn’t they do it all the time?_ But, in Dowsell’s case, the muggy clouds of academia always rolled shut, blotting out further bursts of useful illumination, and Percy had no time for theory over practicality.

Credence, however, didn’t seem to mind him. Now he wasn’t shoved up in front of a row of spectators, having his magical self put on trial, he was much more interested in the wands Dowsell had brought and the theories behind each.

“How can you tell what the properties of each element are,” Credence was asking, as he set down the pine and Rougarou wand he’d just accidentally blasted a hole in the wall with, “if you can only test the finished wand?”

“And _that_ ,” Dowsell said, “is precisely what makes the study of wandlore so fascinating. There are many arguments over the interplay of wand wood and core, discussions over the significance of length. Our knowledge today is the accumulation of thousands of years of research, of trial and error. Successful matches are made by the careful application of both what is known and what is _unknown._ ”

That was exactly the kind of ridiculous statement which riled Percy. _Applying the unknown, indeed._ But he kept quiet and let Credence ask his questions.

“So how come you thought I would match well with a Thestral wand?” Credence said. “Was it my Patronus? But then, if it was that, it would be much easier to do, wouldn’t it?”

“Correct again,” Dowsell said, taking out a knobbly holly and Veela wand and giving it to Credence. “Your Patronus gave me the idea--it was one I hadn’t considered before. And it gave me insight into what a wand must want in order to match well with you.”

“You talk like they’re alive,” Credence said. “I hope not because, if so, I’ve committed several counts of wand murder.”

Dowsell laughed; actually, truly _laughed._ He put his bony hands on his bony knees and doubled himself up. When he mastered himself again he patted Credence on the arm and said, “If ever you want to get into the field, you must come to me. I would love to have you as an assistant.”

Then the conversation paused, first while Credence tried out the wand, and second, while everyone brushed plaster out of their hair and off their shoulders.

“Wands are not living, no,” Dowsell said, once everyone was dust-free again. “But they do have their own will and personality. A wand may seek something in particular, it may have a wish to do a certain kind of magic or be happiest employed in certain situations. Some prefer to defend, some to attack. Some to create, some to repair. And some like hearth and home, others adventure and mystery. You get the general idea.”

Credence nodded. “I think so,” he said. “I’m beginning to realise magic is a part of me, but I’m also a part of it.”

“It is indeed very complex,” Dowsell said, delving into his bag once again. “A lot of factors to take into consideration. That’s why I can’t make any promises, only test my theorems and refine them constantly.”

This time he took out, not a wand, but a long slim box. It was varnished, made of a pale wood with a colouring like rose-gold. The metal corners and clasps looked very much like actual gold.

“The maker wishes to remain anonymous,” Dowsell said quietly, and placed it with care in Credence’s hands. “I think it’s time to try it out, don’t you?”

Percy crowded round as Credence slid open the lid. Inside, pillowed on a cushion of simple cream satin, was a slim wand about thirteen inches long. It was the same colour as the box; pale and pinkish-red. At its base was a neat gold tip and it was banded again with gold, about a third of the way down its length. Credence gazed at it for some time. Percy knew what he was thinking; that the design was a subtle match for his own. 

For a long moment they all admired it, silently. Then, with an intake of breath, Credence reached in and picked it up. 

He met Percy’s eyes at once; they were shining, and Percy knew that they’d found it. This was the one. This was the one and Credence hadn’t even needed to cast a spell to know.

“What do you think it wants to achieve with you?” Percy asked him. “Is it seeking adventure or does it prefer hearth and home?”

“I don’t know,” Credence said. The tip of his wand glowed, soft and golden; his features sparkled with beauty under its light. “But, whichever it is, I want to make it count.”

Dowsell smiled and stood back. Credence turned and cried, “Lumos Maxima!” 

The room burst into brilliancy; everything from ceiling to floor, end to end, was made of light. It was so bright Percy could hardly see anything else. But he knew exactly where Credence’s hand was; he found it and grasped it tightly. Whatever the future held, he was going to be right there beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there are spells for hair growth but a potion feels more right to me - please imagine it in a hand-labelled bottle much like an old-fashioned hair tonic.
> 
> I must give another shout out to [this fabulous piece of fan art](http://arealtrashact.tumblr.com/post/173549169200/i-think-your-patronus-likes-me) for giving me all the Patronus feels and ideas, which are particularly evident in this chapter.
> 
> And if this chapter feels like the end of the fic, that’s because in a way it is. The next chapter is an epilogue - but it is still a full chapter (I think it’s quite a long one too), so I will leave the goodbyes and thanks to next week :)


	18. Epilogue

Percy had never spent so much time in the vegetable aisle before. And he’d certainly never spent so long anxiously examining cabbages.

“Is this really necessary?” Percy said, as Credence tried to decide between a large floppy-leaved cabbage and a purple wrinkly one. “He doesn’t strike me as the type to notice much what he eats.”

“Tina said he was vegetarian,” Credence said in worried tones, not for the first time that day.

The revelation had come as something as a shock, mainly because it had thrown all his dinner plans into disarray. And, as the domestic cookery he’d learned only had to satisfy a meat-and-potatoes man like Percy, it was something of a challenge, too.

Eventually, after some further debate over canned versus dried beans--to which Percy contributed absolutely nothing--they were in a position to pay for their produce and go home.

Mrs Apfel bustled to the front to serve them. Credence was her favourite customer and she particularly enjoyed discussing his purchases with him. Unfortunately for Percy, she enjoyed throwing approving glances in his direction even more--Percy still couldn’t understand why everyone was so obsessed with his love life.

“A pleasure to see you again, Mr Barebone,” she said. “And you too, Mr Graves. What a great quantity of greens! So good for the blood, you know, keeps it thick and strong--you have to think about these things at my age.”

As she was barely a decade older than he was, Percy resolutely declined to comment.

“We’ve a special guest coming to dinner tonight,” Credence offered. “He’s a vegetarian.”

“A vegetarian!” This seemed to have made Mrs Apfel’s day--soon everyone in the shop would know that Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security, was entertaining a vegetarian for dinner. “Well, I don’t know much about them,” she said, “but I’m sure they must be good for business!” And her laugh positively rang round the store.

Outside, the leaves had really started to fall. The sky high above was very crisp and blue and the air was cool. As it was such a particularly beautiful day, they decided to walk home past the butchers, for two fat steaks to go with the leftovers tomorrow.

“Actually,” Credence said, as they stepped out onto the sidewalk again, “there’s another special guest coming tonight.”

“Oh, really?” Percy said. “Who’s the second?”

“Jacob,” Credence said.

“Queenie’s Jacob?” Percy tried to think of any other Jacobs he might know. Since Credence had come out of his shell more, it was possible there was another lurking around the peripheries of his social life.

Credence nodded to affirm it would indeed be Queenie’s Jacob.

“I haven’t met him yet, have I?” said Percy. “What’s he like?”

“Yeah, um,” Credence said, as they drew up in front of their building. “About that…”

*

“I can’t believe it,” Percy said, pacing wildly round the room. He felt himself drawn towards the liquor cabinet but held off, wanting to really appreciate the riot of anger flooding his veins before he poured himself something large and soothing. “I can’t believe it! All of you, _knowing_ , in it together! What on earth were you all _thinking_!?”

“Well,” Credence said. “I didn’t know it was against the law at first, and by then we were already friends. Newt thinks it’s silly because they’ve got different rules over there. Tina was furious, really furious, but Queenie’s her sister and what else was she going to do? And Queenie…” He sighed heavily and said, in a small voice, “It just seems so unfair.”

Percy passed a hand over his eyes and sank into a chair. “But _Credence_ ,” he said. “You saw the rigmarole I had trying to get Scamander’s damn suitcase back into the country. This is so much worse. I can’t-- _I can’t_ \--have a No-Maj here. Think of my position! It would’ve been better if I didn’t know about this _at all_.”

Credence was staring at his hands. “They wanted me to tell you,” he said. “And I was glad because I’ve hated lying.”

There was a long silence, in which Credence studied his hands some more and Percy accio’d himself a glass and a bottle of whisky. 

“I’m sorry you’ve ended up in this position,” Percy said, after a good, long swallow. “They shouldn’t have asked you to do that.”

Credence glanced up. “I could’ve said no,” he said. “But I think they’re right. You _should_ know and I’m the best one to tell you. Lying was the worst thing about it.”

Percy shook his head. “I still can’t--” he said, before Credence stopped him.

“They know that,” he said. “They know you can’t, not really. But just for one night, you can. Newt will be here and everyone will be together again. Then, after that, you can forget all about it. I mean, you can _literally_ make yourself forget, can’t you? If you wanted?”

Percy sighed. That was true. But would he want to not remember such an important milestone?

Credence was watching him quietly; calm, pale face and resolute expression. Obviously he’d cleared this with his God before speaking to Percy. He would’ve worried about doing it; about Percy being angry and acting like he was now. And he’d done it anyway, because he was convinced it was the right thing to do.

Percy sighed again. What’s done was done, and there was no changing it: Credence had a No-Maj for a friend and his best Auror’s sister was thinking of marrying him. What a disastrous mess.

“He’s the one in the reports?” he asked, finishing his drink. “Involved with the suitcase mix-up?”

Credence nodded. 

“And he’s been good to you? Him and Queenie, together?”

Credence nodded again. “Before you, when I was all alone, they used to check up on me. Queenie would bring pastries and Jacob lent me some clothes.” He smiled to himself. “They didn’t fit very well--I could only really wear the nightshirts.”

“I remember that nightshirt,” Percy said, remembering tucking Credence into bed, his eyes huge and dark and wondering. He put his head in his hands. “Blast,” he said. “Hex it all. I’m going to agree to this, aren’t I?”

“Just for one dinner?” Credence said. “Please?”

“He’d better be worth it,” Percy said, pouring himself another couple of fingers. “And he’d better know what a risk this is, for everyone involved.”

“He does,” Credence said. “He knows.”

“Excuse the language, but Seraphina would fucking kill me.” Percy took another gulp, and said, “And for what it’s worth, just because I’m responsible for the rule of law, it doesn’t mean I always agree with it. _And_ I’ll have to have words with Goldstein.”

“I know,” Credence smiled. “She knows. And thank you.”

*

Credence spent quite a lot of the afternoon in the kitchen looking harried. Percy had hovered around the periphery, chopping things he was asked to chop when he was asked to chop them. There wasn’t really much else he could do; Queenie was teaching Credence domestic magic in his free time and he’d already advanced way beyond Percy’s capabilities.

Maybe _he_ needed the lessons more, now. Or maybe Credence’s enthusiasm for it was catching; apparently if you grew up poised somewhere between a domestic servant and a religious penitent, then the best kinds of magic were those that could do a day’s manual labour in ten minutes. Percy had grown up with a house elf and a very efficient mother with a strong sense of status--the only household magic he’d learned had been when he’d joined up. It was serviceable, and still performed to the army’s exacting standards, but even he had to admit it wasn’t very cosy. 

Once the dinner was prepared, Credence relaxed back into his usual state of quiet contentment. Percy was glad--it was supposed to be enjoyable, after all. A celebration: a whole year since Credence had been rescued and Grindelwald defeated. A year in which much had changed, for everyone. 

Percy fixed his tie in the mirror. It was hard to believe he’d still been a prisoner of the dark a year ago. Credence was everywhere he looked; a pile of books by his side of the bed, an extra robe hanging behind the door, and on the dresser notes for next week’s Bible study group. Also, Credence himself--fresh out of the bathroom, bringing with him the clean scent of soap and a slightly pink complexion.

Percy kissed him on the cheek. “All better now?” he asked. “Those vegetables looked well and truly subdued last time I checked.”

“I hope they’ll do,” Credence said, laying his clothes out on the bed. Though still all in sombre shades he’d managed to expand into deep reds; his waistcoat for tonight was a perfect match for the garnet tie pin Percy had given him a few months before. “I want everyone to have a good time.”

“And they will,” said Percy. “But aren’t you glad I’m so easy to look after?”

Credence gave him a sideways smile in the mirror. Percy watched him dress and then anxiously check his reflection. 

“You look beautiful,” he said. Credence always denied it--Percy still wasn’t sure if he genuinely didn’t notice the looks he got or only pretended not to. “And your blushes only you make you more so. Right now, they’re seriously undermining your argument.”

Credence frowned and handed him the tie pin. “Would you do it? You’re better at it than me.”

Percy, as always, obeyed. “It’s not just my love-addled mind, you know,” he said, adjusting Credence’s tie and sliding the pin home with a wave of his finger. “It’s an objective fact.”

Their guests almost certainly agreed. Every time Queenie saw him she would fling her arms around Credence and declare him to be the most edible cupcake in the store. Percy was a proud as proud could be.

Half an hour later, even Scamander, who was not the kind of man to notice such things (much less comment on them) took a small step backwards. It was his first sight of Credence since he’d arrived back in New York--presumably he’d still been carrying round the image of a cowed and broken boy, and had not expected the young man now greeting him at the door.

Scamander let out a sudden laugh. “Credence,” he said, with a nod and a wide grin. “You got cursed with these too?” and ruffled his reddish curls.

Percy shook his hand. “It’s only a curse if you can’t carry them off, Scamander,” he said. “Good to finally meet you in person.”

Goldstein was beaming at his side. Percy noticed her hand was tucked into the crook of Scamander’s arm.

“Goldstein,” Percy said, after she got a hug from Credence and admired his new waistcoat. “I believe I’m supposed to be angry with you but, quite frankly, what’s the point when you already know what I’m going to say? So let’s go inside and get a drink--you can give yourself a good talking to later and save me the trouble.” 

Credence took their coats and Percy settled them in the sitting room. They were using Credence’s--as well as being the best entertaining space, it also had the gramophone. 

“Thank you, sir,” Tina said, while Scamander tactfully examined Credence’s books. “I know you’re right, of course I do, but--”

“Save it,” Percy said. “Life is complicated enough--I understand, trust me. But later, we do need to talk. The real problem is going to be what happens next.”

The sound of chiming bells interrupted and Credence went to answer the door, bringing back with him the exact problem under discussion.

 _So this is Jacob_ , thought Percy. Not exactly what he’d expected. But then who knew what made one No-Maj preferable to another.

Queenie was, quite rightly, extremely nervous. She twisted her hands together, biting her lip. Next to her, Jacob took off his hat.

Percy reached for his cane and stood up.

Then something unexpected happened: Jacob made a beeline for Percy and pulled him straight into a bear hug.

Collectively, everyone took a breath. Including Percy, who found his to be a little more restricted than usual.

“Mr Graves, sir,” Jacob said, releasing Percy from his grasp and seizing his hand instead. He pumped it up and down as he spoke. “It’s an honour, it really is. I’ve heard so much about you. I can’t thank you enough for welcoming me into your home.”

Percy froze entirely, unsure what he was supposed to do or say in return. Credence was watching, arms folded, his anxiety palpable. Goldstein and Queenie were sitting together, also watching, Goldstein with her arm around Queenie. Scamander seemed not to be paying much attention and was talking to something hiding in his collar. Another thing for Percy to worry about, no doubt. It really was difficult trying to host a party when you had the weight of the wizarding world resting on your shoulders. Especially when this lot were your guests.

“Um,” Percy said, trying to gather himself up again. “Thank you?”

“It means a real lot,” Jacob was saying. “It really does. I know we’ve imposed greatly on you--and you can’t really come between a man and his job, especially not a man with a job like yours. It’s very generous and largehearted of you.”

“It is?” Percy said, then cleared his throat. “Yes, it is. I am. So… Don’t mess it up.” He ended up weakly slapping Jacob on the back.

There was a pause, like everyone expected him to say more. Percy turned to the wider room.

“This is Credence’s day,” he said. “I’m not going to ruin it with a lecture. Can you all please just get on with enjoying yourselves?”

Queenie pulled Jacob away to sit with Scamander and smiled sweetly at him, but still not as sweet as Credence’s. He appeared with a glass of Firewhisky and pressed it into his hand. 

“Thank you,” he said, kissing Percy on the forehead. 

Percy slipped quietly into a chair and waved him away. “Go have fun, talk to your friends,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on the food. Half an hour, right?”

Dinner was mostly a success, and Percy was pretty certain everyone really did enjoy it, even if the reassurances they gave Credence were a touch over the top.

Queenie excelled at praise, though. She patted his arm and said, “Honey, if I could make beets taste this delicious, I would bake a lot less pies. It sure would be better for my waistline.” Credence blushed faintly and she moved the conversation neatly on, without giving him time to disagree. “How are you getting along with that new tutor?” she asked. “You started Potions last week, didn’t you?”

Credence’s education had, so far, been focused heavily in favour of good, practical charm work and basic Transfiguration. There was so much to fit in and so little time, that subjects had been prioritised--Potions had recently been added, now that Credence had progressed to more advanced spells.

Repeating good things about himself still caused Credence difficulties--and there had been little said about him which wasn’t good. He flushed again and got around the problem by answering, “I like making potions but I don’t know if they like me.”

“It’s a subject which takes patience,” Percy said. “You’ve got plenty of that, I’m sure you’ll be whipping up sleeping draughts in no time.”

Queenie nodded sagely. So did Jacob, though Percy really had no idea how much he knew about sleeping draughts. Or Potions. Or anything at all to do with magic. He felt almost curious enough to ask-- _because what on earth_ did _No-Majs do without magic?_ \--but refrained. Better overall he didn’t have answers to those kinds of questions.

“I’m willing to bet you’ve got the touch,” Queenie said. “It’s like cooking--they’re really not that different. Potions was my best subject at Ilvermorny.”

Which inexorably led Credence to question her further about her school days. His fascination for it never seemed to wane; Percy wondered if answering Credence gave Queenie the same twinge of sadness it did him. If only Credence had received his invitation; if only his adopted mother hadn’t got hold of him; if only he’d never been orphaned in the first place. _If only, if only, if only_. Then Credence could have gone to school and lived a normal life.

And then he might not have met Percy at all. Or, even if he had, he might not have cared about him in the same way.

 _Life really was complicated_ , Percy thought, as Tina joined in with the schooldays conversation too. And so, with Jacob as interested in the subject as Credence was, Percy could turn his attention to Scamander. He had something he’d been meaning to ask. More than one thing, actually.

“I spent some time reviewing Dowsell’s reports on Credence,” he said. “And I noticed a reference to a certain expert in Obscurials. That wouldn’t have been you, by any chance?”

Scamander smiled quietly and looked at his plate. “Do you know of anyone else with a captive Obscurus?”

Goldstein elbowed him rather hard in the ribs and Percy immediately realised why--Credence had overheard and was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

Scamander noticed too. “Don’t worry,” he said to Credence. “It’s okay in there, it’s quite happy. And it can’t hurt anyone, either.”

“And you can use it to help people, too?” Credence said. “To understand it? There might be others.”

“I hope not,” said Scamander. “But yes. Understanding is always better, much better, than fear.”

Credence nodded. Goldstein heroically changed the subject.

“Madam Picquery said you could attend Newt’s lecture next week,” she said. “If you want to come? I have it on good authority there’ll be demonstrations…”

Jacob piped up from the other end of the table. “As long as it’s not the Erumpet,” he said. “Difficult creatures, Erumpets--you gotta trust me on that.”

Scamander shook his head despairingly, and launched into a long explanation of how misunderstood Erumpets were and why that was precisely why the common wizard needed to be educated about them. Percy couldn’t pay close attention, as he was listening to Credence instead, but to be fair he’d heard it all before from Scamander--more than once.

“Oh yes, I want to be there,” Credence was saying to Goldstein. “Madam Picquery told me about it a couple of days ago when she visited Percy.”

“I keep forgetting you must see lots of her now,” Goldstein said. “What’s she like outside of work? Just as terrifying?”

“She’s not that terrifying,” Percy broke in. “She just thinks she is.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Goldstein said, jabbing her fork at him. “I thoroughly disagree.”

“I don’t see her that often,” Credence said. “They go in Percy’s office and pretend they’re talking about work, but all they really do is drink Firewhisky and make fun of each other.”

“Now I’m really intrigued,” Goldstein said, leaning forward. “Tell me more.”

“She calls him _Incendio_ ,” Credence said, smothering a laugh. “Because she said she’s never seen anyone go from cold to hot so quickly.”

“That’s because _Madam Picquery_ also thinks she’s funny,” said Percy stiffly.

“Just proves my point,” Goldstein said. “Anyone who can make fun of you and get away with it truly is terrifying.”

There was a loud and very odd noise from the other end of the table, followed by shouts of laughter. Scamander was demonstrating Erumpet herding techniques using a fork, a serving spoon, and several wine glasses. The sounds were apparently all part of the method and Queenie was laughing so hard she looked like she might fall off her chair. 

“There was a teacher at school who made a noise like that,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Do you remember, Teenie? Miss Garfield, when she was trying to teach us broom skills?”

“I remembering her bellowing after Bryony Dixon,” Goldstein said. “When she got stuck in that tree!”

Predictably, this turned the conversation back around to reminiscences of Ilvermorny and Percy was able to snatch another quiet moment with Scamander.

“There was something I meant to ask you, a while ago,” Percy said. “But it never really seemed the right time. Do you happen to know anyone in the Jenkins family back home?”

Scamander frowned, thinking. “I’m really not the most connected of wizards,” he said. “Probably not the best person to ask. Um, there might’ve been one at school…? Let me think.”

“Older?” Percy said.

“No, younger,” said Scamander. “I remember the name because he was the youngest Beater Ravenclaw had ever had. Made a bit of stir. Quite impressive, really, he was a scrawny little chap.”

“Oh,” said Percy. There was no way it could be him. Perhaps a cousin, or something; he didn’t recall Toby having a younger brother.

Scamander was still looking thoughtful. “Is it a family matter?” he asked.

Percy shrugged. “No, just-- The war, you know. Wondering what became of people you knew before. That kind of thing. I, er, lost contact.”

There was a pause, the same one which occurred whenever the war was mentioned to someone who’d experienced it. 

Scamander nodded. “I’ll look into it,” he said. “Any name in particular I should ask for?”

“Toby,” Percy said. “About my age, if he’s still alive. Brown-ish hair, a lot of freckles. He wanted to write books.”

Scamander snapped his fingers. “Toby!” he said. “I think I know him, works at the British Library. He’s big in the Collection of Magical History and Literature. Nice man, very helpful with my research into historical representations of Hippogriffs.”

Percy was staring at him. “Really?” Had it really been that easy? All he’d had to do was ask?

“Must’ve changed his name,” Scamander said. “He’s got a hyphen now--got married, I think. I’m pretty sure he mentioned a husband who was interested in breeding Hippogriffs. Montgomery-Jenkins is a much more exciting name--I think I would change it, too.” 

Percy was only half-paying attention. Toby was married, working at the British Library. _Alive_. Was he happy? Presumably so, being surrounded by books all day. _Married_. He glanced over at Credence, who was talking with Jacob and Queenie. His skin had a warm glow from the floating candles; the garnet pin a glittering point of light at his throat.

“Good,” Percy said, turning back to Scamander. “Then that’s good.”

“Do you want me to pass on a message or something?” Scamander said.

“No,” said Percy. “I just-- I’m glad he’s happy.”

Scamander shrugged and picked up his fork again. “Well, we only talked about Hippogriffs,” he said, “but he seemed happy enough to me.”

*

The evening ended with a series of toasts, some striking a more serious note, while others displayed the kind of silliness which stemmed from reaching the bottom of a bottle of Gigglewater. By the time everyone had finished, Credence was a deep shade of pink and radiating a humble happiness. He looked unusually unconcerned by the extra attention; like everyone else, he’d also probably had too much Gigglewater.

Percy’s turn came last. He stood and raised his glass.

“The person who brought us all together can’t be here today,” he said. “But let’s not be too sad on his behalf--I hear prison is very nice this time of year and German prisons some of the nicest of all. Particularly in solitary confinement. So first of all, I offer my thanks to Scamander for _that_ superb piece of work.”

Everyone cheered loudly and drank to Scamander. Jacob reached across the table and clapped him on the back. Queenie and Credence applauded, Goldstein kissed him on the cheek. Scamander just blushed and shrugged and, grinning, tried to avoid everyone’s gaze.

“My next thanks goes to Goldstein,” Percy said, once the noise dimmed. “For her stubbornness, bravery, and incredible loyalty. Like someone else I know, she’s got a conscience that won’t quit. If all my Aurors were like her, I’d get a lot less sleep at night but I’d know our kind was well taken care of.”

The cheers for Goldstein were just as loud, helped along by Scamander drumming his fists on the table. Goldstein laughed, took a seated bow, covered her face and laughed some more.

“Queenie and Jacob,” Percy continued, “receive my sincere thanks for taking care of someone very important to me, before I was able to.”

This time there were no cheers; everyone murmured their agreement, glasses were raised. 

“In my position, it’s easy to overlook small acts of kindness; people with good hearts and good intentions. Our focus is always on things which are bad, ugly, dangerous. I thank them for reminding me not everything needs fixing, and that some things are better left as they are.”

He nodded once at Jacob. At the opposite end of the table, Credence surreptitiously wiped his eyes. Queenie did the same.

“Finally…”

There was lingering pause; all faces turned to Credence, but Credence was looking directly at him. Percy took a breath.

“My Credence,” he said. “Who, if you listen to him talk, will make you think the most incredible things might be true. I don’t know if I believe in fate; if we were all meant to end up here. But I do know there isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be. This is my present-- _our_ present--and I’m going to make the most of it.”

Credence’s smile shone through his tears; he wiped his eyes again.

Queenie called, “ _Kiss him_!” and everyone started laughing and cheering.

“I haven’t finished!” Percy said, raising his glass once more. “The past year has had its difficulties for each and every one of us. But it’s over; it’s finally passed. I hope you all make the most of the present, too. Okay, okay-- _now_ you can all cheer.”

This time they were so thunderous Percy started fearing it might break the Imperturbable Charm he’d cast for the occasion. _Oh well_ , he thought, _the neighbours can put up with it just this once. It’s not often we have a party._

*

It was long past midnight when everyone had left. Percy didn’t think there was a drop of Firewhisky left in the apartment.

Credence had practically fallen asleep at the table. Now he was shuffling around in the bathroom; Percy could hear him bumping into things, humming a slightly bawdy song Scamander had taught him.

He was already in bed when Credence came in. Eight minutes past two, according to the clock on the nightstand. Like Credence had said, after a while you simply got used to the sound.

Credence sat unsteadily down on his side of the bed. A smile lingered around his mouth and eyes; he yawned and slid under the covers. 

“You’re going to have such a headache in the morning,” Percy said, stroking his hair. “But I’m glad you had a good time.”

“Mmmmn,” said Credence, burrowing close.

Percy wrapped his arms around him; Credence gave a great sigh, relaxed, and then sat up bolt upright like he’d just remembered something.

“What?” Percy asked. “What is it?”

Credence blinked dazedly a couple of times, before he leaned gently in and kissed him. 

It had more in common with their first kiss than with their most recent. Quite chaste, just a simple press of lips. Credence tasted of toothpaste and, underneath, still very faintly of Gigglewater.

Then he pulled away and nestled into Percy’s arms again. “Thank you, Mr Graves,” he murmured. “For everything.”

Percy laughed and pulled him closer. “Goodnight, little sailor cub,” he said. “I love you, too.”

And, by the time he waved off the light, Credence was fast asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slams fist on table* in my world magic = queer friendly and I don’t want to hear any rubbish about ‘historical accuracy’ from anyone, at all, up to and including WoG. So yeah, wizards can totally marry other wizards.
> 
> As I was working on it, the Sailor Cub ‘verse got bigger and bigger all the time, and about two thirds of the way in I realised this fic felt more like a beginning than an ending. I’ve tried to round it off so it could stand on its own but I know perfectly well I could write another similar-sized fic to follow on from it (maybe two) and I have a good idea what it would be about. I can’t commit to actually writing it, especially not right now (as I have to focus on writing for £££ very soon), but who knows what I’ll do later on. So if you’re left with any lingering questions at the end of this, that is why.
> 
> I’m definitely not ready to let this pairing go, though - I have [one gradence fic which is updating weekly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16366535/chapters/38300729) and [another WIP which in on hiatus but which I will be back for](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12441930/chapters/28314819), as soon as the fic winds are favourable.
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who has followed this week after week - you’ve all been amazing <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading - your comments mean the world <3
> 
> [Here’s my fic post on tumblr - reblogs always welcomed!](https://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com/post/180618709077/read-the-final-chapter-of-project-sailor-cub-on)
> 
> ~~[Here I am on tumblr.](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com)~~ I’ve left tumblr due to their policy update of December 2018 and now you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/weconqueratdawn), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/weconqueratdawn) and [dreamwidth](https://weconqueratdawn.dreamwidth.org/).


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